


with trials like these

by sheep



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alien Technology, Bucky definitely needs one too, Child Abuse, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Comic Book Science, Domestic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheep/pseuds/sheep
Summary: The sky above him was clouded over giving the whole landscape an odd purple green glow. In the distance was an old wooden fence and a large bur oak tree. In a heart-stopping instance, Clint knew exactly where he was; 10.3 miles outside of Waverly, Iowa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Outta My Head" by the Eagle Rock Gospel Singers 
> 
> Beta'd by the incredibly wonderful abbeyisaverage. Any mistakes found are entirely my own.

**Then**

Another day, another evil lair filled with evil minions. The intel reports had been filled with vague rumours about some big bad weapon that this week’s new psychopath wanted to unleash upon New York. Clint honestly couldn’t understand who would want to take out the eastern seaboard and with it New York pizza and bagels, and pizza bagels.

With light steps, Clint made his way through the hallways of the laboratory, taking down and securing the only two armed guards he could find. It seemed this building had been evacuated prior to their arrival. The chatter from the rest of the team indicated that this was not the case with every other building in the sprawling complex and he had obviously drawn the short straw. He’d already sent Wanda away to help Natasha who was pinned down in a server room three warehouses over.

On his left he heard the distinct sound of footsteps running quickly towards him. Clint drew his bow and slowly poked a head out. An older gentleman in a labcoat raced towards the elevator, looking back over his shoulder – scared. Fuck. Clint raised his drawn weapon and stepped out. The man stuttered to a stop and looked Clint in the eyes briefly before flicking his glaze at the exit and then back down to where he’d come from.

“Leave. We must leave now.” The man said with a heavy Eastern European accent.

“What’s back there?” Clint asked.

“We don’t know. We never knew. It’s…It’s not right.” Panicked and huffing from exhaustion, the man struggled to get out his words. When Clint gave him a blank stare, the man shook his head in frustration and with his hands mimed an explosion.

“Is the base rigged?” Clint demanded.

“No. Not bomb. It. I have – kill me or it kill me. Dead either way” The man eyed the exit and then dashed for it. Clint let him go; he wasn't armed and he wasn't going to get very far between the other Avengers and SHIELD.

“I think there are labs here and potentially something that might need containment.” Clint called in. Cap was of course the first to respond.

“Do you need backup Hawkeye?”

“No. The place is cleared out and it doesn’t sound like you have someone to spare even if I needed my hand held. I’m going to set up a video feed to Stark. You cool with that Tin Man?”

“Cool with doing four things at once? You are lucky I am this talented.”

“Set up the video feed and relay it to Iron Man and back to the Tower so Banner can look at it too.” Cap ordered.

“Copied and out.” A brief moment later and there was a small static burst and Bucky’s voice came over on the private comms channel they’d set up.

“I’m ten minutes out if you want to rethink the –" There was a grunt and the tell-tale sounds of hand-to-hand combat. “Back –up,” Bucky finished with a distant thud.

“Seriously, this is a ghost town. I’m on reconnaissance and you obviously aren’t.” Clint reassured as he pushed past the large metal containment doors. A small spark of foreboding nestled in his chest, but Clint shook it off. His instincts were usually right but also prone to being deeply unhelpful in his line of work.

“Don’t be an idiot, Barton.” Bucky commanded with a scowl Clint could see through the comms and it almost made him smile.

“Well that’s impossible, I was born an idiot.” Clint quipped back. “I’ll come back _you_ up when I’m finished up here. Out” The hallway past the door was long and at the far end the lights were flickering with a loud buzzing sound. Under that buzz though, it was quiet. The sort of quiet that made every squeak of rubber on linoleum and every soft breath sound infinitely louder. The temperature cooled drastically enough as he got further down the hall to make his skin break out in goosebumps.

The far door was taking on that matted sheen that indicated it was below freezing temperature. Clint took out the glasses from his suit, small and compact, and unfolded them. He initiated the video link and put them on. The door handle was so cold it bit his hands as he pushed it open and went through.

The lights on the other side of the door flickered as well. The hallway looked ordinary enough, even as it flickered from lit to fully dark every few seconds. There were two labs, empty except for basic equipment. Clint’s breath hung in the air in front of him.

“That’s creepy as fuck” Tony’s voice crackled through, sounding incredibly distant. The unexpected noise almost caught Clint off guard.

“Empty though. I think up ahead is the main lab.”  

“How many more of these assholes are there? Where do they even find these guys? Craigslist?” Stark lamented.

“Iron Man, your 6 and your 10 and fuck, your 4 as well.” Sam’s voice came through a bit clearer than Iron Man’s but whatever was down here was obviously affecting electronics. Clint just needed to finish this and then get out there where he’d be actually helpful.

Clint pushed forward, ignoring the dread weighing down his feet; he was only 70 percent sure this was going to end with him in SHIELD quarantine. The final set of doors would normally require a security pass but whatever was fucking with the lights and the comms was causing the security lock to glitch between unlocked and locked. Clint waited for the second that the light flickered green and jerked the door open. The door led almost directly to a short perpendicular hallway with windows all along the far wall that looked into a huge lab build around a solid black cube suspended in the air. Every couple of seconds it pulsed with a deep purple light that flared between the small cracks Clint could only see when it pulsed. Ice frosted along the edges of the observation windows.

“Alien technology, appears contained but I’m unsure for how long. I believe it is causing a number of electrical disruptions.”

“Calling…containment…” The comms buzzed, breaking up with each pulse. Clint took a step towards the window and started to look around the lab. Clint had no idea what he was looking for but Bruce and Tony would need data. Best to give them the full picture. It was hard to concentrate on ensuring they got a full view of the lab though because his eyes kept getting dragged back to the cube. It was truly beautiful. Clint reached out a hand to touch it, fingers bumping into the cold glass, hissing as the cold burned his fingertips sharply.

He just needed to get a bit closer. Clint walked towards the entrance to the lab and pushed the containment doors open. There were hazmat suits there but the cube wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t going to hurt him. Clint braced his shoulder against the door and gave a good shove, once and then twice more before the door gave way and he could enter the lab.

“Hawk – bzzt – Stop – bzzt – eye” It sounded like Tony but distorted as if he were speaking through a thick pane of glass.  

“Clint – do – please –“ Bucky. B. He sounded so scared but there was no reason to be. Clint walked slowly up to the cube. Why did aliens love cubes? Why were all alien artefacts cubes? Clint could feel the pulse now, it reverberated in his chest, stuttered his heart in a way that sent waves of tingles down to his fingertips – like standing too close to an amplifier at a concert.

“Bucky, it’s so beautiful.”

“Bzzt – Out!  – – please!  – soon.” Bucky was speaking but it was all too loud. Everything was too loud. Clint took out the comms and put them on the table and after a second, he placed his bow down too. The metal of the bow was growing uncomfortably cold against his hands and when he looked down at his palm, he could see an angry red stripe down the its’ centre.

The pulsing was increasing in speed and intensity. Clint could feel it building in his chest along, with a growing sense of anticipation and then, the first crack of _wrong_. This wasn’t right – this was becoming quickly very much super not right. Clint wrested his eyes from the cube and picked back up the comms.

“Something’s wrong.” Clint yelled and he had no idea if they could hear him, the line was just a loud buzzing now. Clint stumbled backwards, tripping over and toppling a metal table. The pulsing had turned into a constant rattling whine. “Clear out. Clear out now!” Clint shouted into the comms as he finally fully snapped out of the trance he’d been in. It was too late for him but maybe the others... Clint booked it towards the doors, or rather tried to but his legs were numb and uncooperative causing him to stumble, falling down onto his hands and knees. Then it hit him, a blinding white light that turned everything white, so white, his vision turned black. Clint screamed as his whole body felt like it was pulled apart, every nerve ending blindingly on fire as they ripped to shreds. Then – nothing.

 

**Now**

 

Bucky sat on sofa and stopped himself watching the video again for the one thousandth time. It had been another one of those nights where his dreams were filled with Clint’s voice begging for help and that scream. That scream was what haunted him still after all these months. There had been nothing left of Clint to bury. Stark at tried to explain how certain explosions evaporated bodies but neither of them had really wanted to talk that in depth about it. Stark had seen it happen live – the rest of them had just heard it.

He had wanted to believe so badly that maybe no body had meant that Clint had survived. Wanda hadn’t been able to find him and that had been even more damning than any of Stark’s science. That cube hadn’t done or reacted to anything since. It had just sat there like an over-sized paperweight.

The lab notes lifted from the facility had shown that they had been studying the phenomenon for decades trying to make an even deadlier bomb. The artefact created a localised explosion every few years that took out the nearest subject. The notes had provided no answers as to what had happened or even what had set it off. The cube had just started its countdown hours before they had arrived. The Avengers’ timing had simply been typically terrible.

Bucky shut his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. He needed a shower. He needed to sleep. He needed his goddamn boyfriend. Two out of three of those were possible – well the shower at least was. Sleep hadn’t been a guarantee even before all this. Three months and Bucky still felt like he was skating the edge between functionality and a chasm of overwhelming grief.

Bucky looked over at the clock – 4:43. Steve would be here in an hour and two minutes for a morning run and his smothering form of worry which required action and progress and tangible results. Three months. Three months and Bucky was still faking being functional and not even very well. Bucky hit his head against the back of the couch and let it loll to the side.

Only decades of conditioning stopped him from jumping out of his skin. Clint was curled up on the couch next to him, watching him with such sad eyes. God, he had only ever looked like a few times usually as he was trying to wake Bucky up from the nightmares that had him screaming and weeping in equal measure.

Bucky reached out a hand, fingers brushing against the ice cold skin of Clint’s cheek. Clint’s eyes widened comically. Bucky blinked and Clint was gone. The couch empty. Bucky blinked again and stared at the empty space that Clint had been preoccupying. No, not preoccupying. This was just like those months after escaping Hydra. He needed sleep or the hallucinations and seconds-long dreams that distorted all reality would just get worse.  

Bucky got up and laid down on the bed and forced his mind to drift.

He was standing in a dull yellow cornfield under a purple-grey sky. The wind that swept through his hair was neither warm nor cold and with it brought the distant sounds of children laughing and screaming. Bucky could hear wind chimes and the sound of a screen door opening and slamming shut with the breeze. He couldn’t see over the corn and the few steps he took were disorientating. He wasn’t sure where the house was but knew in his bones it was there, on the other side of the corn. The noise and wind ceased suddenly, their absence felt like a vacuum sucking all the air away with it. Bucky found it hard to breathe, the air too thin. For a few long seconds nothing moved and nothing made a single sound.

The creak of the screen door opening and the subsequent of crack of it slamming shut shattered the silence. It sounded so much louder than before. It creaked and cracked again, and then again, speeding up and somehow getting even louder. Bucky clutched his head in pain. He awoke with a jolt, sitting up and coughing, taking deep gulping breaths.

“-if you don’t open or respond in the next five seconds I am breaking this door down.” Steve. Running.

“I’m up, you punk.” Bucky muttered, knowing Steve could hear it through the door. “Give me five fucking seconds.”

Bucky threw his legs over the side of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. Bad sleeping habits bred bad dreams. This one at least got points for being original.

He looked over at the dresser and bit back the sigh. His jogging shorts were four steps away but it required standing and pulling open a drawer and that was just to get them in his hands. He still would have to put them on. All these steps added up until even the small act of getting dressed felt overwhelming.

“Bucky – can I come in?” Steve and his kid fucking gloves. The annoyance spurred him forward. Up – four steps – drawer – one leg – second leg – done.

Bucky flung the door open and gave Steve a flat look.

“I just need a hair tie. Or some scissors and be done with it.” Bucky rolled his eyes as he shoved it his hair behind his ears only to have it flop forward immediately afterward.

“Bucky…” Steve started and tapered off – clearly unsure.

“Don’t. We are running and then you are buying me the biggest, greasiest breakfast. And we are not talking about feelings. Period.” Bucky raised one eyebrow and crossed his arms, jutting his chin out challengingly.

“Deal. There’s a team meeting this afternoon.” Steve continued casually as Bucky rummaged around the top drawer of his nightstand. There was a mostly full pack on the other side of the bed in the other nightstand but Bucky wasn’t prepared to open it – not this morning – not after that dream on the couch. Finally, some fucking luck, Bucky pulled out a well-used hair tie, elastic loose and huge. It would do.

“And?”

“New team member selection. We are looking at adding a few members to the roster.” It was a punch in the gut. Bucky knew – objectively – that it was necessary. They were a man down and Clint had been their eyes and ears on most mission. They’d been making due but with Bruce sidelined, Thor off planet, Wanda god-knew-where and Clint...well the roster was thin. The less rational part of him felt like it was the final nail in the coffin. The final thread being cut. Clint Barton was officially dead and everyone else was accepting that and moving on.

“I would like you to be there to give your opinion but I understand if you don’t want to. It might help though.”

“Will it help?” Bucky felt the anger surge through him, burning sharp and bright. “Tell me how exactly that’s going to do anything but make me feel like complete shit.”

“Bucky, he’s gone. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t hate that I sent him in there without backup. He’d want us to move on.”

“Save your fucking inspiring speeches for the rest of the team.”

“He’d be the first one –“ Steve stopped as Bucky raised a fist and then immediately dropped it to clench it at his side

“He didn’t die doing something heroic. He didn’t die saving lives. He died because he was a human man with some sticks and string and nothing but a thin layer of Kevlar between him and an alien nuke. He was the last person who should have been in that room.”

“Barton was one of the most resourceful and talented people I knew. He did something neither of us could have done without unethical human experimentation and a miracle serum. I won’t have you tainting that legacy – especially when none of us could have survived that explosion.” Steve said, squaring Bucky with that stubborn Rogers’ patented look.

Bucky turned away from Steve and punched the wall hard enough to send his fist through both sides of the dry wall with a shout of frustration. Bucky let out a few ragged breaths, in and out, before pulling his hand out and looking at Steve with searching eyes.

“I’m just so angry at everything and sometimes especially at him – for leaving me.” Bucky admitted, looking at Steve’s ear, unable to meet his eyes. Steve pulled Bucky in for a hug ignoring the token protests.

“I thought you said no feelings for this run.” Steve teased lightly and tentatively.

“Well it’s not the run yet is it?” Bucky shot back, feeling like his old self again if only for a second.

“Run some of that anger ragged?” Steve suggested.

“It’s going to take a lot of miles.”

“Good, I need to work up the appetite for the world’s biggest, greasiest breakfast.”

 

**Then**

For a long time, it was just complete darkness and pain. Layers upon layers of agony. Clint had screamed himself mute, curled up into a ball, suspended in the nothing. This was surely hell. Days – weeks – months – seconds – eternity? No, it was likely two days or three. On the first day Clint had scratched long gashes into his forearms during a particularly painful wave that had since scabbed over and no longer burned when touched. He couldn’t see them of course but he could feel them, running his fingers over them constantly. His body existed. He existed.

Clint curled even further into himself and scrunched his eyes closed. His mind would be the first thing to go. He was already becoming numb to the pain. It was present and hurt but a lifetime of experience with pain had taught him that at some point it all bleeds together. His mind though, that was certainly going to break first. He already sometimes thought he’d catch shadows which was crazy talk. Shadows couldn’t exist without light.

It caught him by surprise really when gravity seemed to reinstate itself. It took him far longer than it should have to realise the sensation he was trying to pinpoint was falling. Clint fell for long enough that know this was it.

His back hit a liquid surface – his whole body seized with pain like being stabbed with knives over the entirety of his body. It punched the air out of his lungs. Clint sunk beneath the surface that was thicker and far more viscous than water – in his mind he pictured oil. His limbs wouldn’t cooperate for a long minute as he sunk far below the surface. Panic overrode the shock. Clint’s arms felt too heavy as he tried to propel himself upwards. He involuntarily took a breath only for the cold liquid to rush down his throat and fill his lungs. It caused his chest to seize and his brain to spark, sending flashes of white and blobs of colour across his vision. Finally, was the last thing he thought.

**

Clint came to awareness slowly. First, there was so much light, it was blinding him through his eyelids. White like the lab before the darkness. It burned his eyes after all that time in the black. Then he realised that he could move his body - that his limbs worked and obeyed him as he rolled onto his front, burying his face into the crook of his arm. He was dry and below him the rich, earthly scent of dirt. With a sob, Clint dug his fingers into the soil and took deep steadying breaths. After a few minutes, Clint finally cracked his eyes open. Clint forcibly calmed his breathing as his eyes took a painfully long time to readjust. Below him grass came into sharp focus, though it looked duller than Clint remembered it.

Clint pushed himself up, ignoring the complaints it sent through his whole body, and looked around. He was in the middle of a field, one that seemed to stretch for miles. The sky above him was clouded over giving the whole landscape an odd purple green glow. In the distance was an old wooden fence and a large bur oak tree. In a heart-stopping instance, Clint knew exactly where he was; 10.3 miles outside of Waverly, Iowa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see new tags.

**Now**

“I don’t like any of them,” Tony sighed as he absentmindedly shuffled the files around, “And I don’t see a problem with our old recruiting method. You know, the one where we just sort of bump into or build helpful people and boom – new Avengers.”

“I’m not waiting for you or Banner to have another lab accident. Sam could have been seriously injured last mission because we are missing integral members.” Steve stated.

“I don’t believe this – are you honestly okay with this, Barnes?” Tony asked, looking Bucky straight in the eye.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bucky replied coolly, face impassive. Tony threw his hands in air and stood up.

“Fine, my votes with the Parker kid.” Tony said over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

“Where are you going? We aren’t finished!” Steve stood up as well, frustration evident in his tone.

“I’ll be in my lab, Cap.” Tony replied right before the conference room door closed behind him. Steve fell back into his seat and ran a hand through his hair. He then moved Parker’s file onto the far side of the table.

“He’s not sleeping.” Natasha said matter-of-factly. Most days, Bucky envied Natalia’s ability to compartmentalise and move on. She had disappeared for 3 weeks after the explosion and when she got back, she was as professional as ever.

“He’ll be better once Pepper is back from California.” Steve replied without looking up. Natasha made a noise that neither seemed to agree nor disagree with Steve’s assessment.

“My vote is for Kate Bishop.” Natasha grabbed the file and pushed it toward the pile only for it to be intercepted by Sam.

“No.” Bucky dismissed. “Too human.”

“She was trained by Barton. He taught her more than just shooting. He taught her strategy, tactics, what to look for during chaotic battles. She’s not as good a shot granted but it’s a near thing and she’s young and constantly improving.”

“No.” Bucky restated with more insistence.

“Hawkeye? She’s taken up the moniker?” Sam asked as he flicked through the file.

“He gave it to her or she took it – I don’t know –the two of them never agreed on its origins.” Natasha stated with a soft affection. Bucky crossed his arms and gave Steve his best ‘you better not’ look. Steve at least had the decency to look chagrined as he ignored Bucky’s protestations while he moved the file to the same side of the table as Parker.

Bucky stood up letting his chair scraping loudly against the ground before turning and leaving without a word. He could hear Steve getting up to try and come after him and Natasha convincing him to leave Bucky be. He liked Kate. He really did but she was a kid. She should be training for the Olympics not risking life and limb. More selfishly – the mere thought of someone calling for Hawkeye over the comms and getting her voice instead would shred him all over again.

It took three hours of running himself ragged but when Bucky finally collapsed on the gym floor, the anger had finally faded and all that was left was the dull ache of well-worked muscles. From his position on the ground he had a good view of the obstacle course Tony had installed in the upper part of the training gym. It was made up of steel beams and floating platforms. They had all trained on it, but it had been one of Clint’s favourite places to hang out and eat contraband junk food. Bucky rubbed a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the unwanted memories of the two of them sat up there, legs kicking into the air while they challenged each other with increasingly more ridiculous trick shots involving candy. Barton always won with a stupid self-deprecating shrug and that fucking smirk.

Bucky let his arms fall to his sides and looked up again. It was just a training course and with the rate that Stark redecorated, it’d be completely overhauled in a few months’ time anyway. As Bucky pushed himself up though, something caught his eye. Someone. There was a person sat on the beam by the far window. Bucky moved towards them. He knew the slope of that back and the curve of those shoulders. Clint. Clint was slumped, hugging one knee against his chest while the other leg dangled, bare foot and wearing street clothes.

Bucky threw himself on the nearest ladder and was up in seconds. Clint was still 20 feet away but it was so clearly him.

 “Clint?” Bucky called out but the man didn’t react. Bucky moved to the edge of the platform and started edging along one of the thinner beams to get closer never taking his eyes off the figure’s slumped form. “Clint!” Bucky yelled again to no effect. Bucky was closer, only one more long stretch of beam stood between them, and he could see Clint’s face properly for the first time. It was so pale, eyes sunken in and bruised like he’d never known a good night’s sleep. He looked thinner and Bucky could see bruises on his upper arms where Clint’s own hands were clutched at his biceps hard enough to whiten knuckles.

“You got to talk to me. Are you okay?” Bucky almost pleaded. Still nothing. Bucky took his eyes off Clint for the two seconds he needed to run across the final beam that would get him to the nearby platform. When he looked back up, Barton was still there but he was now looking at Bucky in dawning horror. No not at Bucky, behind him.

“Clint, babe, look at me. It’s okay, I promise.” Bucky took a one step closer and Clint clambered up to his feet, eyes still focused right above Bucky’s right shoulder. Bucky whipped around in fighting stance only to be confronted with a bare wall.

“Clint, what do you see?” Bucky asked as he turned back around in time to see Clint’s body jerk backwards like he took a big hit to his chest and tumble off the beam into the air. Bucky screamed and threw his body forward to try and catch him only to have his hands meet nothing. Bucky looked around, eyes jumping everywhere but there was no sign of Clint. Below him was the gym, empty but for the discarded towels and empty water bottle he’d been using. Bucky took two great gulping breaths and suddenly, noise filtered in past the loud rush of blood that was all Bucky could hear in his panic. Friday was calling him and a few seconds later, Steve broke in through the doors in a dead run.

“He was here.” Bucky mumbled, confused. “Steve, he was here”.

“Bucky, I need you to come back down to this level.” Steve was using his negotiator voice. Bucky rolled himself off the beam, letting himself fall the 25 feet or so and landed with a hard crunch on the floor. He pulled himself upright and ignored Steve’s disapproving look.

“He was here Stevie and he didn’t look good. He’s hurting out there and we never even looked.”

“Bucky look at me – that wasn’t him.” Steve took Bucky’s face between his hands and tried to force eye contact.

“I couldn’t have imagined it – he’s never looked like that. What if that cube sent him somewhere instead? What if he’s still out there all alone and terrified. He was so scared, Stevie.” Bucky grit out as his chest felt like it was compressing and it was making it very hard to breathe.

“Bucky – stop!” Steve raised his voice and shook Bucky a bit. “Stop” Steve repeated with even more authority when Bucky opened his mouth again to speak. “Friday can you please inform Bucky what you just witnessed with your systems.”

“Certainly, Captain Rogers. Mr Barnes was in here alone working out for 189 minutes. He lay down for a few minutes and appeared to fall asleep. Upon awakening, he started looking at the upper part of the gym and calling out to Mr Barton; however, the systems showed that Mr Barnes remained the sole inhabitant of the room. Mr Barnes continued to act in an irrational manner and made his way to the upper level of the gym.”

“Show me video.” Barnes growled, uncertainty clashing with the crystal clear memory of Clint, scared and barefoot and falling. A video started playing on the nearby wall where Steve liked to replay videos for tactics. Sure enough, it was just Barnes addressing air. “Were there any anomalies? Anything different from before to after I fell asleep?”

“There were no changes whatsoever in the room; however, I do not have the ability to detect changes in brainwaves or patterns. I would recommend Mr Barnes be brought to Dr Banner for further examination.”

“Thank you for the suggestion Friday.” Steve thanked. “I think it’s best we go to Dr Banner now.”

“It felt so real.” Bucky muttered while he let Steve lead him back down towards Banner. It really _had_ felt real. But Bucky was well aware how feeling real and being real were two very different things. 

**

“On average, how much sleep are you getting?” Banner asked after he gave Bucky a quick eye exam, tilting his head to the side and back.

“3 hours but it’s never in one block. I can’t sleep for more than an hour or so.” Bucky admitted reluctantly. The team couldn’t afford to be one more man down.

“Ah.” Banner replied as he removed his hands and looked back down at his notes. “I’m going to take some blood anyway and I think we should run a sleep study to verify it all but I am fairly certain you are suffering sleep deprivation. Even with the serum requiring less sleep, you still need to enter and come out of REM sleep in healthy and consistent intervals. Failing to do so can cause psychotic episodes and sleep paralysis.”

“So I’m not sleeping and it’s causing me to hallucinate.” Bucky said without intonation as he looked to a place on the wall behind Banner.

“Precisely. You need sleep. Healthy sleep, minimum of 3 hours with no interruptions, enough to enter and exit a REM cycle.” Banner put the tablet he had been using down to look Bucky in the eye briefly before he set to work getting a blood sample. “You suffered real loss and I know you have been trying incredibly hard these past three months to move forward but your current coping mechanisms are not healthy and are in fact hindering you. I understand your reluctance to use medical and psychiatric resources because of your background but there are alternatives that the medical community approve of. One of the best ways to navigate grief is to do so with others in similar positions. We all lost Clint that day and while he was closer to you than many others, he was important to all of us and we would all be willing to talk to you about it.”

Bucky nodded but didn’t say anything further as Banner got up and put the small vial of blood away and started rummaging through a cabinet on the far wall. “You know, he and I never spent that much time together but I know that the other guy was very fond of him.”

“They would always tease each other in the field.” Bucky admitted even though the words stuck in his throat. With his back turned, it was hard to read Banner’s reaction.

“Clint was on a quest to prove to me that I was ready for greater society. He believed if he could show me that Hulk was capable of restraint and friendship that there was nothing to fear if I lost control.” Banner finally pulled a pill bottle out of the cabinet and closed it.

“He loved lost causes.” Bucky said gruffly as he looked at the ground.

“You are not a lost cause.” Banner said with certainty.

“Neither are you.” Bucky shot back. They both sat there in an awkward silence for a few minutes.

“I think we, as a group, have been avoiding the subject of Clint as much as possible and it is unfair to the good man that he was. However, I know for a fact that there are people who will be more than happy to talk to you about him. Nathasha for example.”

“Is that to help me sleep?” Bucky changed the subject with a head tilt towards the bottle.

“Most sleeping pills do not promote deep sleep or REM sleep. I can give you a few that will do that but I only want you to take them on an as needed basis. You need to reteach your body healthy sleeping habits. I will give you enough for a few nights for now. These are a tool not a cure.”

“Thanks, doc.” Bucky spared him a grateful smile as he took the pills.

 "I'm serious about talking." 

 "I'll think about it." 

 

**Then**

 

It took a few minutes of walking but true to memory, Clint found himself stood outside of an old and rundown farm house. His grandfather had been unable to maintain it for a decade before his death and then his father had failed to maintain it for a further decade and a half. It, just like the landscape, was off. The white paint was just as chipped but an odd muted colour. Everything looked like it had been through one of those awful Instagram filters Kate insisted on using.

The house looked bigger than it ought to, closer to how Clint would have seen it as a kid. It stood far too imposing for what it was. Dread was making his boots feel lead-lined and his chest felt tight. It was a house and Clint was the only person alive who had lived there. This fear was ridiculous. Clint squared his shoulders and headed up the steps to the front landing but stopped just short of the door. He had no idea what would be behind there and even though he was still in his filthy armour, his quiver hadn’t made the journey and he’d left his bow in the lab.

His mother had always kept her gardening supplies by the front door and when Clint looked down, the bucket was sat just where he expected it to be. Clint grabbed a trowel out of it and flipped it once to test its weight. With it gripped firmly in his right hand, Clint pulled the front door open.

The house layout was as it should be, front door opened onto a hallway that led straight to the kitchen that took up the back of the house. To the right there was a staircase up to the second floor and to the left a door that led to the living room. Clint could see the ratty brown sofa and mismatched Goodwill chairs. The house wasn’t empty. He could hear banging in the kitchen and the indistinct murmur of conversation.

Clint had nightmares of this house – still – even after two decades and countless monsters far scarier and crueller than Harold fucking Barton. Two more deep breathes and then Clint moved, back pressed against the hall as he spot-checked the living room and then the dining room on his way to the kitchen. Clint pointedly ignored the basement door under the stairs. The closer he got the more he recognised the hum of his mother cooking and the low growl of his father complaining – it sucked the air out of his lungs. Sheer force of will carried him the last 5 feet to the kitchen door.

Harold Barton sat slumped over on a chair, clearly nursing a hangover. He had an open beer bottle (“hair of the dog”) clutched in one hand while the other shovelled in forkfuls of scrambled eggs and potato hash. There was never food to spare growing up but on Saturday mornings after his ma got paid, she’d cook them a proper breakfast. Before bills and booze drained the rest of her pay.

Across from him sat Barney who looked so young now. God he’d always seemed so much older and bigger to Clint growing up, an impossible standard but here, eating food with one eye on their dad and the other on the back door, he looked ten. He looked like a kid, scared and out of his depth and grown up way too fast. It felt like a punch in the gut.

His mother stood, flipping pancakes because Clint had hated eggs and two Saturdays a month, he could get away with begging for any other breakfast. She was beautiful and tired and the sight of her nearly made Clint choke up with tears all over again.

He could just see the back of his younger self’s head, feet kicking the chair legs in an absent-minded way that was going to get him a slap any second and babbling nonsense to his mother.

“Ma?” Clint called, voice thick with tears as he pushed himself into kitchen finally. No one responded. They all carried on, completely oblivious to him.

“Stop with the fucking banging.” Harold growled out as he rubbed a rough hand down his face. He kicked his foot out and clipped younger Clint’s shin good, the whole chair screeching back an inch. Clint felt years’ worth of impotent rage at his father well up. Clint had crossed the few feet separating them and grabbed onto Harold’s shirt, yanking him up with one arm while the other one raised, poised to attack. He wasn’t that big and he was only human, it would be one of the easiest kills to make and that was just emotionally speaking.

His father finally turned to look at Clint, so did the rest of his family. The all looked towards him with completely blank faces like they were being reset. His father looked at him impassively, the rest of his body limp and non-reactionary. Clint punched him once and then dropped him. For a few seconds, nothing occurred and then, like someone had pressed play, they all resumed acting as if nothing had interrupted them.

“Can I get one fucking minute of peace and fucking quiet?” Harold’s voice boomed. Clint’s younger self hunched over in his chair and pulled the injured leg up to hug against his chest.

“Clint honey, bring your plate over and you can help me with the last of these pancakes.” His mom ushered her youngest with head tilt. She eyed her husband warily and when his younger self got near, she picked him up with seeming ease and sat him on the counter. She kissed his head and used her free hand to still his leg that was already starting to jitter again. With her body firmly between her husband and her youngest, she turned back to the stove and tended to the two pancakes bubbling away.

Clint knew exactly how mornings like this went. His father had already started drinking and after he finished eating he would take half the cash in his mother’s purse, drive her into town for her Saturday shift at the café and waste the rest of the day in the bar drinking her pay away. Barney would reluctantly let Clint follow him around all day. Clint eased into the room further and walked over to his mother. He didn’t care if she responded or not. He hugged her and relished the way her soft blonde hair brushed his face. He was so much bigger than her now. For a while, his ma kept working on breakfast but eventually, once Clint gripped her too hard, she stopped and went still in his arms. Reluctantly, Clint let go and moved back rubbing a hand over his face and hair. He needed a shower, he needed sleep, and he needed food. Then he needed to find a way back home because if he could have named a last place on earth he’d wanted to be, this would have been it.

He hadn’t felt the desire for anything in the darkness except for it to end but now, his body was making its needs clear. Clint turned his back on the scene. If this was hell, he was not going to indulge the greater powers. This was too much to deal with. Right now, it was triage: shower to feel human, food to fuel, and sleep to get his mind sorted.

The shower was where he’d expected it, and it even creaked and sputtered the same way he’d remembered. No matter how he jiggled the hot or cold water tap, the water came out this unremarkable temperature. Clint stood under the spray and considered his situation: alien cube with unknown powers, some catalyst event, a long stint in darkness while his whole body felt on fire, and finally, his childhood home complete with weird copies of his family and himself. The colour tones were fucked as was temperature but he still had all his sense and bodily needs.

He could be dead and this some twisted version of the afterlife but that didn’t feel right. It had to be the cube. He just had no idea what it did or how which meant he had no idea how to get home. But that was what genius friends were for. Clint had no doubt that Bruce and Tony were working on the problem on their end, which meant it was just a matter of time. Clint would be home, after a SHIELD quarantine no doubt, getting all kinds of hell from Bucky about being an idiot. Thinking about Bucky made his heart clench with guilt. He must be going through a hell of a time right now. The thought of Bucky and the fear he must be going through now, it made Clint’s heart clench with guilt. It could have been days or maybe just hours.

Clint didn’t know anything. ‘Triage’ Clint said under his breath to himself, shutting down all other lines of thought with decisiveness: shower, fresh clothes, food, and then sleep. The greater problems would be better faced with a clearer mind.

**

Clint had gone to his father’s closet after the shower to get fresh clothes. It felt so odd, pulling the white tshirt on only to have it fit almost too tight across his shoulders. Clint had fantasized about being able to confront his father but he’d never considered the optics, of being this much bigger and this much fitter.

Clint pulled on some jeans that needed a belt and ended just above his ankle. Once he was dressed he headed back down to the kitchen which now sat empty. The food was cleared away and there were no leftovers. In fact the kitchen was almost completely bare except for a couple canned vegetables and a tin of baked beans. Clint opened both a can of green beans and a can of baked beans and ate them cold and from the tin. The food tasted like approximations of the food he remembered. Taste here was just as off as colours and temperatures. It sucked but Clint could and had lived off of MREs for 3 months straight during a particularly FUBAR mission in Colombia a few years ago. Pickiness with food was mostly beat out of him by his dad and then well beat out of him by the nuns at the first group home they had stayed at.

Sleep failed to come as easily as he had hoped it would. In the distance he could hear wind rustling the corn and Barney’s cruel laugh at whatever gross thing he had just bullied Clint’s childhood self into doing. Clint needed a nickname for his younger self. LC, would work until he came up with something a bit more clever. Clint closed his eyes and pictured Bucky, sat in bed legs stretched out while he read through a terrible pulp spy novel. Clint would let the swishing of the pages turning send him off to sleep. Except that Clint was alone and all he could hear were the wind chimes that had kept him up as a kid.

Clint rolled over and pulled the blankets over his shoulder forcing his breathing to slow down until the old trick eventually worked. It felt like only a few moments after his eyes were closed that front door slammed open, the raised voices of his parents filled the air. Clint sat up, back straight and body already moving to get up and into a defensive stance. It couldn’t have been only a moment though, because outside was pitch black, the sun long gone.

“Stop it, Harold, baby, John was just being nice and asking if I wanted to pick up Cheryl’s shifts. That’s it I swear.” His mother plead, appeasement bleeding through every word.

“That’s it, so his fucking hands all over you was just something I fucking imagined?” Harold yelled back. Clint could hear a loud crash and his mom cry out. Clint’s heartrate rocketed upwards and he could feel the adrenaline rush his system as he made his way downstairs in his dad’s borrowed clothes. Clint stepped over the two boys huddled on the top step and ran down the stairs. Within seconds he was able to get between his father and his mother from where they were in the foyer. Instead of ignoring him like he had this morning, his father backhanded him, wedding and football rings catching Clint across the cheek with far more force than he should have been capable off. Clint stumbled into the wall and behind him he could hear his mother hit the wall too.

His father grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled Clint back towards him before punching him hard enough to send Clint sprawling onto the floor. Behind him, his mother hit the floor, and when he turned to look at her, he could see her face purpling already and her cheek bleeding from a cut. When Clint caught his reflection in the hallway mirror as he staggered back up to his face, his face was clear of bruises and cuts even though he could feel their phantom presence.

“Harold, please, you know I never would hurt you like that. I love you.” His mother pleaded, walking around Clint to clutch at his father.

“Prove it.” Harold sneered, he stumbled a bit but righted himself. God, he had driven her home after work in this state. He drove them all around drunk as a skunk so often it was a miracle he had only ever killed himself and his mother and even then, only after years. His mother immediately started smoothing down his shirt.

Clint yanked his mother away from his father with a frustrated scream, putting himself between them once again and this time he threw the first punch and held nothing back. His father took the hit, head snapping backwards and he stumbled, tripped over the edge of the runner and went down like a sack of bricks. Clint was on top of him immediately, punching his father over and over. The blank look was back and it was clear that Clint was doing absolutely no damage. After every punch, his father’s face would loll back to facing forward, not a mark on him.

“Leave her alone. You’re dead. Just be fucking dead.” Clint shouted at his father’s prone form. He punched until his arms tired and his breath grew ragged. With a sob, Clint slid off his father and scuttled backwards until there was two feet between them. For a few moments, the hallway remained still and quiet except for Clint’s loud breathing. Then, just like at breakfast, his father got up like nothing had occurred, grabbed his mother by the wrist and started physically dragging her up the stairs to their bedroom.

Clint got up and punched the wall, once and hard. It caused pain to flare up his hands as it scrapped one of his knuckles raw and caused it to bleed. He could be hurt here, just only if he hurt himself. His whole body felt anchored down – he was just as useless now as he’d ever been. He was not going to sleep in this house tonight, not while listening to his father continue to hurt his mother. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Clint strode out the front door, still not even properly closed from his parents’ explosive entrance, and banked left, headed towards the Donaldson’s grazing field that had laid empty and over grown for all the years that Clint could remember. On warm summer nights, Barney and he would camp out there if their dad was in one of those moods.

 

It took even longer to fall asleep the second time. His heart would not stop racing. It wasn’t real, these people weren’t real. They weren’t even people. They were just ghosts and ghosts couldn’t hurt. By leaving, he wasn’t abandoning or failing anyone. There wasn’t anyone to fail. Clint kept up the mantra. By the time he fell asleep, he still didn’t believe it but he had at least quelled the urge to get up and go back into the house. The second time Clint woke up, it was to an acute sense of dread. It had been night when Clint had fallen asleep under stars but now above him was just inky black nothingness that was so dark for a second Clint thought he might be back suspended in the nothing. Even though he could not see anything, he could sense something behind him. Something large and predatory. Something that was close. With slow deliberate movements, Clint turned around and tried to make out a shape, anything. Whatever was behind him let out a low growl that reverberated through Clint’s chest. Clint took one slow step backwards, and then one more before turning around and running as fast as he could. He could see the farm house, still lit in the distance.

It was so dark outside that Clint didn’t see the wooden fence separating their small plot from the endless fields that the Donaldson’s owned. Clint hit it at full speed, winding himself. He had enough sense to pull himself over the fence instead of falling on the wrong side of it. He couldn’t breathe and he could hear the thing behind him, getting closer and closer. Clint pulled himself to a standing position and drew a wheezing breath and then another. He stumbled forward a few steps before finally finding his footing and his breath again and then took off in a dead run. He could feel the ground shake a bit with each step this thing took. Clint skid into the lit front drive and up the porch. Whatever was chasing him howled but stopped short of the light. Clint couldn’t make out its shape, couldn’t even get a glimpse of it. Three hours sleep – it was enough to keep him going for now. If this kept up though – no – Clint did not let himself dwell on it. He wouldn’t have to keep it up, help was coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Now**

 

The five nights Bucky had spent on the pills Banner had given him had been the best sleep he had had since before the war. No weird dreams, no daytime hallucinations, just the most well-rested and refreshed he had felt in as long as he could remember. He knew how effective sleep deprivation could be as a torture tactic, had lived it with Hydra in the early days when they were experimenting on him to study to the effects of the serum. Freshly wiped, the hallucinations had all been doctors and shadows. Now he had a life and a subconscious that was crying out for what he missed most. It made sense. It did. He just couldn’t get that image out of his mind though - the way Clint had looked so scared and haunted. The Clint he knew would rather bite off his own hand than let anyone see him being vulnerable.

Five days of peace and quiet and Bucky still found himself standing outside the containment room Stark, Banner, and SHIELD’s best had constructed. Bucky stared at the cube, suspended in the air and looking more like that terrible modern art that Natalia had favoured than a miniature nuke. Bucky stood there for a long time. At one point the elevator dinged and a few seconds later, Stark joined him at the window.

“It looks like nothing. I think that is the part of it that I hate the most. Well that and the obvious.” Tony added the last bit quickly, his mouth usually faster than his brain when it came to tact.

“I need you to tell me again that it killed him and I need you to explain to me how.” Bucky said with no feeling and little inflection.

“Again?”

“Again. And maybe another time after that. Convince me.”

“I don’t know if I can. Wow, I wish Pepper was here to hear that. She is constantly telling me I don’t know my own limitations. Though I guess she means it more in a how long can the human body survive without food and sleep.”

“If you can’t convince me then I am going to need you to run more tests until you come up with something that will.”

“I’ve run every test we have and then some that Banner and I created. We built whole new machines and scanners that could win us a nobel or two and we still couldn’t get any reading off of it. It doesn’t react to anything – not our tests and not its environment. That group we took it off of had decades of notes on it and that explosion only occurred a handful of times and each time one person always got vaporised.”

“What if it didn’t vaporise them but acted as a portal.”

“Like the tesseract? I can’t say it’s impossible but... The scientists working on this before seemed to think that the event occurred whenever the device required more energy, that it used the person as fuel essentially.”

“Do you think they were right?” Bucky asked, hiding the lump in his throat.

“I think they were correct that whatever the cube did was to sustain itself. The readings before were extremely erratic and now they are completely stable. It is now in a dormant state. We have the data from the event, Grease Lightning, and I can show it to you if you want but I don’t know if it will help you, it barely helped us. What I can tell you was the energy signature from the cube is nothing like that of the tesseract. We checked. It was closer to that of an explosion and you saw how the lab looked afterwards but, all-told, that explosion should have taken out everything in a five-mile radius. The numbers don’t make sense. Did you saw the lab videos from 2009?”

“Yes.” Bucky said through a clenched jaw, opening and closing his metal fist. “I just…we can’t know for sure.” Bucky finished lowly.

“I think we need expert in all things alien Thor. Dr Strange already ruled out alien magic and if this was like a tesseract, he would have been able use it. This cube is completely different from anything we’ve encountered. The truth is out there and so is Thor. We’ve left messages and now we just need him to come back to Earth. He’s due for a visit soon even if his lady love has dumped him.” Tony said with a growing frown.

Waiting. They had been waiting for Thor for months. He told them last time he left that it might be for a while since the realms were at war. Wars could take decades, especially when they involved aliens with such long lifespans. That was time they didn’t have.

“You have me doubting my own genius now.” Tony accused.

“Is there another alien expert we can call?”

“Yes, another alien science expert. I am not calling Mr. Fantastic.” Tony said immediately. “He wouldn’t be able to help anyway, what could he possibly add that me and Brucie haven’t already. I could call Jane – she is more of an expert in alien than anyone else here. I’ll also call that shield tech they rescued from another alien artefact gone wrong two years ago and before you ask, no, it’s nothing like what we are dealing with here. It was a Hydra pet project.”

Tony took out his tablet and started tapping on it.

“I wonder if Van Dyne is available?” Tony said mostly to himself as he headed back to the elevators with only a distracted wave in Bucky’s general direction.

It was progress, Bucky just couldn’t figure out why it didn’t feel that way.

**

Tony had been true to his word and within 48 hours he had a team assembled. Bucky had gone down and watched until Tony had kicked him out.

“You are making them nervous. Go shoot something or whatever you do on your spare time. Nothing is going to happen today and nothing might happen for weeks.” Tony had dismissed.

Fitz or Simmons, Bucky had not been able to deduce who was who, had sheepishly smiled.

Which was how Bucky was once again on the floor of the gym, having destroyed two of Stark’s latest attempt at super soldier gym equipment. Above him, Natasha stood with her arms crossed giving him an extremely unimpressed look.

“Director Coulson is wondering how long he’ll be out his best scientists.” Natasha drummed her fingers along her forearm.

Bucky shrugged in response giving her a mulish look. Natasha swore under her breath.

“I am not having this conversation on a dirty gym mat. Come, let’s have lunch.”

“I’m busy, Natalia.”

“Wallowing, I can see it.”

“Fuck you.” Bucky growled raising to his feet, “Some of us actually want answers. Some of us want to do right by him.” Bucky’s voice raised with each word and he crowded into Nat’s space.

Nat gave no warning before she punched Bucky hard enough in the face to break his nose, blood gushed out getting in his mouth and staining his teeth.  Nat just looked on with a cold smile.

“Did Clint ever tell you what he wanted when he died?” She waited for Bucky to acknowledge her, and he eventually did with a shake of his head. “He told me. When we buried his brother in Iowa. It was back before gods and monsters. We made promises that night and I have been keeping mine.” Nat’s voice was quiet but fierce and she held her body like a tightly wound coil. Bucky looked away, rubbed the blood that had already stopped as his body healed itself onto his pant leg.

“He loved you. I know he never told you. You obviously loved him too. Now, stop hurting yourself.” Nat said with a far softer voice as she released the tension in her body in the span of one breath to the next.

“Why? Because it’s not what he would have wanted?” Bucky sneered and braced himself for another punch.

“He’s dead.” Her words had the same effect of a punch.  “He can’t want for anything. You stop because hurting yourself and those that love you is unacceptable. Stark cannot bring him back and guilting him into trying is unfair on him and on the rest of us.”

“I don’t know how to stop.” Bucky whispered, grateful it was Natalia here because this was not something he could have admitted to anyone else, not even Steve. “How did you?”

“I don’t think you will like my method.” Nat said with a private smile curling her perfectly painted lips. “No, you need to bury him.”

“We already did that.” Bucky said through grit teeth, anger rushing back up.

“I mean you need to say goodbye. I need to pack away his apartment in Brooklyn. The new landlord will be moving in shortly and the place needs to be ready. I’ll be there at 7 and I hope you’ll be there too.”

“I thought you would have dealt with it by now.” Bucky ignored the offer.

“I’m dealing with it now.” Nat replied in that spy doubletalk that Clint used to use all the time to get out of opening up about anything. “Steve’s waiting outside, you have 30 seconds.” She said, throwing a smirk over her shoulder as she left. Bucky heard his footsteps a moment later. Nat was terrifying.

“Bucky.” Steve called through the door. With a sigh, Bucky braced himself. Steve took all of 0.2 seconds after opening the door to comment. “What the hell happened to your nose?”

“Natalia.”

“Bucky.” Steve sounded pained. He opened his mouth to start but Bucky interrupted him.

“I’m going with Nat tomorrow to clean out Clint’s apartment. I was wondering if you could help.” Steve’s eyes widened in surprise briefly before he schooled his expression back into that thoughtful understanding look he’d been using on Bucky for the past few months.

“Of course. Do you want me to ask anyone else?”

“No.” Bucky said, horrified at the thought of Sam being there to witness any emotions that Bucky wouldn’t be able to suppress in time. 

 

**Then**

Time was a weird concept here. Some days operated like full days, which meant nice long peaceful stretches of time with an empty house for him to sleep in. Other days operated like a VH1 marathon of the worst hits of the 80s. There was little time to sleep between whatever scene these spectres of his family wanted to re-enact. The memories they were replaying were also out of order. His dad was predictable and so many of the beatings almost followed the same script but Barney had a cast on his arm for most of the spring of ‘88 and it would come and go between scenes.  Nothing made sense here. It was giving Clint a headache.

Food was also a weird concept. It didn’t taste like anything here and it had very little texture but his body did need it. Plus, food was never abundant growing up and the cupboards were usually pretty bare. Clint had taken up scrounging during meal time memories. He would take his father’s plate, and eat from it while watching his father’s spectre mime eating like Marcel Marceau himself. They did that often, continue doing what they were doing, even if Clint tried to change the environment around them.

He could move the chair right before his father sat down, but his father would still sit and look like he was using an invisible chair, like a badly glitching video game.

The thing in the dark was still there. Clint had tested boundaries and it did not take long while walking to trigger some invisible alarm that set off both the darkness and caused the creature to come running. The house was within the boundaries along with a few places away from the house that were popular childhood haunts. Clint could even get to the river, a good two miles away, since that was where they swam in the summers to cool off but he couldn’t go passed the river. The one time he had, it had gone from day to that inky black. Once he was back over the river, it was like crossing over into a new world, back into the light. When he looked behind him, the horizon was just darknesss and he could hear the unearthly howling.

Another boundary he tested was seeing how long he could stay in a safe zone away from the memories before creature came. It seemed to vary but it was a couple of hours. On his third attempt, the creature had gotten one swipe in on his back before Clint had made it to the porch. It was the only thing besides himself that could hurt Clint in this world. He had the beginnings of plan with dealing with the monster but it wasn’t fully formed yet. First, Clint needed a weapon and a garden trowel was not going to do the trick. He needed to make a bow. He hadn’t crafted his own since his circus days but he knew how.

**

Clint sat on the porch whittling a long piece of wood he’d taken from the old barn. It would be fairly rudimentary but it would work. In the background his father as on another one of his drunken rages, ranting about the same bullshit over and over while his mother alternated between crying and screaming at him. It wasn’t physical yet but it was only a matter of time. The first few days, Clint had taken a real joy out of beating is father with his bare hands over and over. It had no effect though, and it was hard to truly enjoy it when his father always stood back up minutes later with zero evidence that anything had ever been out of place. Now, he just tried to ignore it.

From where he was sat on the stairs, he could see the corn stalks moving in the distance, where Barney and LC were playing. Clint put the bow project down, hoisted himself up, and walked towards the field. The sounds of his mother and father fighting faded and instead, Clint could hear Barney’s mean drawl. It was one of _those_ days then.

“Stop crying, you pussy.”

“I’m not crying, asshole.”

“All you have to do is move your hands away faster.” Barney and LC were sat crosslegged facing each other playing slapsies. Clint remembered losing that game each and every time he played it with Barney until he was 13 and once Barney started losing, they stopped playing. LC’s hands were bright red. “If you can’t handle it, call uncle.” Barney said with a knowing smirk.

“Never.” LC muttered and it caused Clint to roll his eyes at his younger self. Well at least this was proof he’d been like this his whole life. Barney moved at a brutal pace, laying heavy slap after heavy slap down, too fast for LC to move away. When LC flinched, Barney crowed with laughter yelling “Free slap” as he hit twice in a row.

“You really were an asshole.” Clint said more to himself than Barney.

“Say it, squirt.” Barney prodded, giving a hard enough slap to have LC whimper. Clint pulled LC back and sat down in his place, holding out his hands that were so much bigger than 10 year old Barney’s.

“You are an asshole.” Clint said evenly as he let Barney continue. The slap hurt. Clint could have moved his hands but he kept them still. “Were an asshole.” Slap. “And I’m sorry I never said thank you for saving us.” Slap slap. LC howled behind him, refusing to call uncle.

“Stop being an idiot and call uncle.” Barney rolled his eyes but kept up with the slaps.

Clint sighed and moved his hands away and got up, brushing dirt of his father’s jeans. It was easy to say sorry now but it didn’t change a single goddamn thing.

“This is hell. One slap for yes, two slaps for also yes.” Barney slapped once viciously enough that LC started hiccupping in pain. Figured.

**

The second week did not go much better than the first. Highlights included watching his father break a beer bottle over his mother’s head and then start strangling her, genuinely forgetting that he didn’t kill her that night, breaking his father’s neck, and then watching it untwist back slowly from its unnatural angle.

At least the bow was finished. Now he just had to craft some arrows.

**

The beginning of week three saw Clint suiting up and setting up camp in the large bur oak. He had a bow, ten arrows and a flashlight and this was his best idea. He had so many good jokes that Nat would pretend she didn’t find funny. And Bucky. Bucky would hate this plan. Clint tugged the literal escape rope he’d tied to a nearby branch and tried very hard not to think about the sick squeeze in his chest. It had been weeks, they had to be close.

Clint leaned back against the trunk of the tree, legs dangling on either side of the branch and waited. It was late afternoon but the sun would probably stay up for another four hours. Nothing made a sound except for the light breeze that rustled the leaves around him and the wind chimes in the distance.

An hour or so later, the family car rolled up the dirt path to the house, veering dangerously towards the fence before overcorrecting and nearly hitting the house. He was far enough away he couldn’t hear the conversation between his mother and father as his mother stiffly strode into the house first and his father stumbled in after her. A few minutes later an upstairs window opened and first Barney and then LC climbed out the window and down on to the roof over the porch. They shuffled down it to the edge and then slipped off of it so they were hanging off the eaves before dropping the last four feet or so. They ran off in the direction of the river and Clint lost sight of them once they hit the trees at the far end of the corn field.

One of those evenings then.

Clint relaxed back into the tree.

Another hour passed and the Sun sunk lower in the sky. What would usually be that warm yellow evening glow was instead far duller and almost grey. Clint shifted; it wouldn’t be long now.

The darkness rolled in from behind Clint. For the first time, Clint noticed how much colder it was. Not just the cold that came from night but deeper, to the bone. It pricked at the back of his neck. One second Clint was looking down the branch and to the east, and the next, the branch was gone and the blackness rushed forward closing in on the horizon. Within seconds, there was nothing.

Only an illuminated house in the distance. The wind had stopped.

Clint took in a slow measured breath and then let it out. For a minute there was nothing but silence.

Then he heard it, the low two-toned rumble. Clint quietly moved along the branch towards the rope and waited. The creature was walking slowly towards him. Each footstep, crunched and scraped. The rumble was getting louder, the higher tone picking up in intensity. Clint took out the flashlight and waiting until he heard the creature step onto the gravel of the road. He flipped the flashlight on.

A nearly translucent claw and a black whisping smoke leg were in the circle before it reared back screeching shrilly. Then it moved, quickly. Clint readied an arrow and at the first sound of claw on bark he shot. The arrow thudded into the ground. He hear a second scratch on the other side, and fired one more that side only to hear the arrow hit the ground again. A claw swiped at Clint’s leg. Tearing the tactical pants at the calf and carving a deep wound. Clint grabbed the rope and swung down to the field, leaping off the rope forward and landing roughly on his good leg. Clint ran, favouring the good leg slightly. The thing should have been able to catch Clint at this point but it didn’t. It let him get back to the illuminated house and collapse onto the porch.

Clint could hear it pacing just outside the light circle of the house. Hissing, he peeled back the tatters of his left pant leg to see three deep scratches. They would need stitches. And as the only human here, it would be up to him. He limped back into the house. His father was passed out on the stairs like he’d given up halfway through the climb. Before Clint stepped over him, he rifled through his pockets for the cheap gas station lighter he always had on him. The linen closet at the sewing kit.

Clint got into the bathroom and started to rummage through the cabinet to find the rubbing alcohol, leaving blood smears on the white porcelain. When he found it, he finally collapsed on the floor. Missing two shots, needing to give himself a boatload of stitches and ruining a perfectly good bathroom? _This_ was just like Budapest.

With the lighter, Clint sterilized the sewing needle. It didn’t feel like Budapest though because Nat wasn’t about to crash through the door with even more gunmen on her ass and Coulson wasn’t going to show up tomorrow and get them out of jail. It was just going to be him, in this shitty bathroom, with bad stitches, alone. This felt more like those two years after the circus before SHIELD picked him up when every meal was a luxury and every shot was a bad choice.

 

**

 

A month. Give or take a couple of days. The man that looked back in the bathroom mirror looked, older, and so very very tired. His eyes were dark, and his cheek bones were becoming more prominent. Clint laughed a little hysterically. The person in the mirror looked crazy. It made Clint laugh even harder.

“Worst. Vacation. Ever.” Clint said mimicking the Comic Book Guy. “Alien. Cubes. Never. Again.”  

Clint turned off the tap in the sink and shook his hands of excess water before running his hands through his hair, causing it to stick up in long unruly spikes. He would need a haircut soon. Haircuts in hell. Clint laughed even harder.

“STOP HAROLD!” his mother shrieked loud enough to carry from the first floor up the stairs and through at least one door. One of those mornings. Clint’s smiled dropped.

“Don’t tell me what to do with my own son.”

Clint debated whether he was in the mood to relive another classic from his childhood. He wasn’t. But he’d have to walk by it to get outside and go to the field Barney was likely hiding out in to avoid any fallout. His leg was better but not good enough for a two story drop out of a window. With a sigh, Clint made his way out the door and down the stairs.

“He didn’t mean it. It was an accident.”

“You think money grows on trees, boy. Answer me.” His father bellowed. Ah, the broken beer bottle incident, well one of them. Clint still had a scar on his back from _that_ belt whipping that followed. Clint sped up to get to the door.

“No, s-s-sir.” LC stood shaking. It only gets worse but then it gets better, better than we could have ever hoped for – Clint wants to tell his younger self but it isn’t in the script and saying it out loud won’t stop the inevitable. Won't bring any comfort. 

Clint opened the screen door and took one step outside. Or rather tried to. An invisible field pushed Clint back with such great force that he was sent sprawling on the floor. This was really not the time for a new development. Clint pulled himself back up with the help of a side table and started for the door again. The same invisible force pushed him backwards again. Outside, the surroundings started to blacken, the darkness seeping into the landscape from all different directions. It moved rapidly until once again, the house was the only lit thing in an ocean of inky blackness.

Something or someone was not appreciating the Barton classic avoidance tactic. The belt was out now and while Clint refused to look in that direction he could still her the whistling of it through the air and the crack of it as it stuck bare skin. His mother sat slumped against the doorway sniffling and flinching with each crack.

Harold rarely hit them in front of her and this was one of the few times he had. Clint remembered the way he had stared at her and begged her through the tears, snot, and pain to make it stop. She had just sat there crying and not moving an inch. Clint turned around and headed back up the stairs. If you couldn’t leave the house he could at least go drown it out with a shower. Clint climbed up the stairs, one step, two step, and by the time his foot touched the fifth, that same force that wouldn’t let him leave the house, knocked him back down the stairs. Clint caught himself using the bannister. It caused his arm to jolt uncomfortably and his shoulder to protest in pain as he righted himself.

“Fuck you. Fuck this. Let me the fuck go.” Clint cursed the ceiling as he tried to drown out the sharp slaps of the belt and the pained whimpers of his childhood. Yelling at inanimate objects was exactly the healthy kind of behaviour that was expected of SHIELD agents and Avengers alike. “And why are you just sat there. Why won’t you do anything?” He yelled at his mother, watching one of the worst beatings of Clint’s life unfurl in front of her. Graduating to yelling at his dead mother. This was a low, even for him.

Clint slumped down on the stairs and closed his eyes as he listened to pain whimper morph into full-fledged screams. A month. And the cavalry still hadn’t showed.

 

**

 

It took three days but the memory du jour was finally one that involved his father driving his mother off to town so the ancient rust boat of a car sat out in the yard. Clint took the keys while his parents screamed at each other about John from the diner. That monster in the dark was a fast runner but it was unlikely to be able to outspeed a car, even a shitty one. Clint had no idea where he would drive as Tracy Chapman always said but anyplace was better.

Clint sped down the dusty country road and made a left onto the highway that would take him east. East to New York. The radio played something country and fresh air moved through the car through the inch gap where the window wouldn’t close. It felt normal and Clint even found himself smiling as he hit the gas pedal, breaking the speed limit. The radio’s signal started breaking up, static buzzing between the words that sounded far too much like that day in the lab. Clint shut off the radio with a flick of his wrist and adjusted the grip on the steering wheel. The radio flicked back on.

“Nothing?!” Stark’s voice asked incredulously. Clint, took his foot off the accelerator letting the car slow naturally. “That was the science equivalent of poking it with a stick. A sharp, very annoying stick.” Stark continued dismayed.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Bruce sounded frustrated, frustrated in the way that usually lead to the Hulk bleeding out.

“Whoa there Brucie-kins. I’ve got one last idea.”

“That’s one more than me.” Bruce said, defeated.

The radio buzzed again and country music again began to leak out of it.

“No, no, no” Clint chanted as he fiddled with the radio trying to replicate it. When Clint looked up he could see the blackness converging like a storm on the horizon. “Guys, I’m here – please. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Clint pressed his foot on the accelerator pedal until it was flat on the car’s floor and sped off towards the darkness. He was goddamn tilting at windmills. His friends were out there. He just needed to let them know that he was still there. The radio began to act up again.

“That is a terrible idea.” Bruce said and Clint could picture the furrow in his brow the doc always got with that tone.

“Some of my best moments have stemmed from terrible ideas.” Stark sounded so confident.

Darkness enveloped the car and the headlights only gave him about 5 feet of room to follow. Clint felt more alive than he had in weeks. The adrenaline surged into pinpoint focus of keeping on the road at full speed. There were only a few close calls with some bends Clint was obviously not prepared for. His hands moved as assuredly as his feet as he turned off this small country highway to a larger one, still devoid of all other cars. Clint swore he could see some sort of light up ahead but it was so hard to be sure in the inky blackness.

Something, the creature in the dark, sideswiped the car so suddenly that Clint could not even hit the brakes. It sent the car careening into the air and caused Clint to be snapped from one side before being snapped back by both the belt and gravity. The second impact cracked his head against the driver’s side window knocking him out.

 

**

 

Being back in the tower felt more like a dream than his current hellscape. He was stood in a lab of some sort and the left side of his face felt wet, sticky with blood. Stark and Bruce were there, talking quickly back and forth, but Clint couldn’t make out the words. It was as if they were all underwater. The both looked in desperate need of sleep and a good hot meal. On the other side of the lab was an observation window. Bucky stood there. Oh god, Bucky. Clint made his legs move as he stumbled over to the window and banged on it. Bucky just seemed to look through him. He looked awful. Alive and hot and breathing and awful. Once at the window, Clint could see Steve hovering awkwardly behind Bucky by the elevator door.

“Bucky.” Clint shouted, in his mind he begged that Bucky could notice. “Please. Please, help me. Look at me. I’m here. I’m here.” Clint could feel himself getting hysterical, could feel his hands shaking. “Bucky, babe I-“ Clint couldn’t finish, he was yanked backwards by his shirt hard enough for the shirt to momentarily cut off his airway. It was like the lab was at the end of a tunnel, getting further and further away until it was a speck of light on the horizon and then Clint was falling again, once more.

He awoke to the same bright light, in the same field. It should have felt helpless except that his friends were working on it and for a brief moment, he had pushed against this bubble he was in until it was flush with the bubble of reality. The wind swept through his hair and the wind chimes clinked in the background. For the first time in weeks, Clint grinned, holding real hope in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Now**

“This place is tidier than I remember it.” Bucky commented as he surveyed the apartment. He hadn’t seen in months.

“The whole building helped keep it ready just in case.” Natasha said, from where she was putting together the moving boxes.

“Where is it all going to?”

“Some of it is being donated. Some of it is coming back with you and me. Most of it is going to SHIELD so they can handle it with the sensitivity that Barton’s security clearance requires.”

“I didn’t realise SHIELD had protocols like that in place.” Steve said from where he was awkwardly hanging about in the corner by the door.

“The kitchen is being donated or thrown out. I have seen his coffee maker and would not wish that on anyone. Steve, can you handle separating and packing the kitchen into either these donation boxes or these garbage bags?” Natasha asked with a raised eyebrow. The question made Bucky feel physically sick.

“I’ll do the bedroom.” He volunteered, if only to place a floor between him and everyone else.

“It’s yours. I had no urgency to learn about your private lives.” Natasha said, half-distractedly as she started to go through the coffee table that was likely filled with as many extremely sensitive mission memos as take-out receipts.

Bucky climbed the ladder up to the loft with ease and collapsed onto the bed. He gave himself three minutes to pull himself together. After that, it became, not easy but far less hard than he had imagined. Bucky went through all the clothes, easily separating what had been functional, what had been Bucky’s (and most likely poached by Barton at some point) and what had been sentimental, old and worn thin. He couldn’t bring himself to throw away the latter two but he could get rid of the rest. Bags and bags filled, ready for donation.

The bathroom was easily cleared out, mostly used tubes of toothpaste and half-empty shampoo bottles. All of Clint’s nicer things had been at the tower.

Bucky walked back across the floor which caused one of the floorboards to creak oddly. Bucky stopped and lifted his foot to look at it before putting it back down to test again. Definitely a hiding spot.  It was probably a weapon and he really should look at it but it felt too personal. A breach of trust.

That swell of grief and doubt clambered up his throat. In one swift movement, Bucky bent down and pried the board up with more strength than strictly necessary. Below was a beautiful set of throwing knives, a glock, and a small tin box with Carson’s Travelling Wonders branded on the top and cartoon pictures of circus animals and clowns painted along the sides.

Bucky put the weapons onto a small pile he’d started on the bed and went back for the box. He hesitated briefly before picking it up. Clint had spoken so little of his life. He made jokes about it, terrible jokes that no one else laughed at. And there were times late at night, when neither of them could sleep, when he’d let slip a story or two. More damning though were the few times when he’d kissed a trail of kisses up Clint’s body and asked about the stories behind the scars and two very unfortunate tattoos. Clint would shutter his face and say “Oh, that one’s old” instead of spinning a giant yarn about a mission gone FUBAR that sounded impossible until Nat confirmed it later. It felt wrong to pry after his death.

Bucky sat back down on the bed and opened up the tin. Inside were pictures, postcards, and small knickknacks. He took them out, one at a time. The oldest and most worn photo was of a young couple outside a white house surrounded by fields that looked in desperate need of some upkeep. The couple was all smiles though, a fit young red-headed man and petit blonde woman who was obviously Clint’s mother. They looked in love, snuggled up close, his arm around her waist, both laughing a little while smiling for the camera. Bucky almost put it down when he brought the picture back up to study the house. It nagged at him, a feeling of familiarity. As far as Bucky was concerned, he’d never been to Iowa, not even in all his years as the Winter Soldier.

Bucky continued to rifle through the contents of the box. Another few photos of the happy couple now with a baby. There was an inscription on the back, ‘Charles ‘Barney’ Bernard  1980’. He was a baby but the family resemblance was strong. A few more photos of the young family, except the smiles were fewer and farther between.

Seven photos in and finally one with Clint. He was just a baby but his mother looked happier than she had since that first photo. ‘Barney’ stood next to her making a disgusted face to the camera. There are only a few photos left and each one was just of Barney and Clint. Barney never once smiled for the camera but Clint did, wide and easy. They almost looked happy except that Bucky could see the smudges of bruises peeking out from sleeves and what looked like the remnants of a black eye on Clint. Barney sported an arm cast in the last one along with a deep scowl. Bucky had known, had guessed very early on but it still felt like a sucker punch.

He placed the picture aside, next to the one of the house and couldn’t quite bring himself to put the two of those photos away with the rest. Bucky flicked through postcards with nothing written on them of places that the circus had probably passed through, some ticket stubs and unfolded a small flyer announcing the debut of the Amazing Hawkeye that had a picture of a preteen Clint in an awful sequined purple outfit. Bucky could fully understand why this flyer was hidden. Rattling at the bottom of the tin, was a Captain America decoder ring with a story behind it that he’d never hear and an origami elephant brittle with age.

Bucky methodically put it all away just as it had been except for the two photographs and then placed the tin in a box marked for the Tower. Bucky looked back down at the picture of the house as he tried to place it in his mind. He was so lost in thought he didn’t even hear Steve climb the ladder until Steve spoke.

“You’ve been up here a while. How is it going?”

Bucky looked up, and then back down at the two photos in his hand quickly.

“I…uh…found some photos.”  He showed Steve the one of Clint’s parents outside the farm house letting Steve take it.

“Handsome couple” Steve appreciated, “Clint took after his mother. Is that him as a kid?” Steve pointed to the photo remaining in Bucky’s hands. Bucky, fought the urge to turn the photo away from Steve but the man had super vision and had already seen it. Bucky passed it over. “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

“Barney.” Bucky supplied. He watched as Steve’s face hardened slightly, eyes narrowing. “I know.” Bucky sympathised and took the two pictures back.

“Do you want to talk?” Steve asked instead of prying further.

“Nope.” Bucky popped the ‘p’ and looked around the room that was mostly empty.

“I’m proud of you for -.” Steve started but Bucky kicked him hard in the shin.

“Do not.” Bucky warned.

“I-“ Bucky kicked Steve in the shin again, harder, for good measure.

“I am going to go help Nat unearth all the weapons. Between the two of us, we should get most of them.”

“Are there any up here?” Steve asked as he looked around.

“Mattress, under the sink, night stand, and headboard. There is a hunting knife he pulled out once but I have no idea from where and he refused to tell me. I’ve put all the ones I’ve found so far on the bed.” Bucky supplied as he tucked the photos into his back pocket and headed down the ladder.

**

When Bucky dreamed that night, he was back in that oddly-coloured corn field. The wind was blowing but the screen door wasn’t banging and he couldn’t hear any wind chimes. There were children screaming though, this time in something closer to anger than laughter. Bucky pushed himself through the corn stalks, barely avoiding getting snagged in them. He was so unsure if he was even headed in the right direction. Eventually he stumbled upon a dirt road in the middle of the corn field. Two boys broke out just ahead of him in the middle of a fist fight. The older boy, redhead and instantly recognisable as the boy he saw in the pictures – Barney, had…Clint, in a headlock and was holding firm even though Clint thrashed and stomped down on Barney’s foot repeatedly. They both looked dirty and a too thin.

“Say it, asswipe. Say it and you can go home.” Barney gloated.

“You’re a monkey’s uncle, jerkwad and you smell like one too.” Clint wheezed, face red with exertion and likely slight oxygen deprivation. Bucky felt frozen, unsure if he should intervene. Barney growled and lifted Clint off the ground, his sneakers scraping against the dirt. Now he was clearly being choked. Bucky moved forward and with some force, pried Barney’s arm off his brother’s neck.

“Hey, hey.” Bucky shouted, using his most authoritative tone. “Knock it off.” Neither of the children so much as moved in his grasp. Bucky looked down and was met with two completely blank faces, like they had been wiped. Bucky let go of both boys immediately and staggered back a step then two, breathing deeply. The brothers continued to just stare at him, emptily. For a long minute they remained that way, long enough for Bucky to calm his breathing. Bucky took one step forward and the two of them sprung into action, resuming their previous positions.

“Say it.” Barney screamed, hiking Clint another inch upwards so his feet were completely off the floor. Clint slapped at Barney’s arm, once, and keened loudly. His body jerked slower and slower. Barney was going to kill him. Bucky reached forward once more to separate them when Barney let go and Clint dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the ground with an oof and long round of coughing. Barney looked immediately chagrined and dropped down into a crouch as he rubbed his hands soothingly over Clint’s arms and shoulders as they wracked with coughs.

“You’re okay, right. You’re just fine.” Barney muttered.

“Uncle monkey.” Clint eventually rasped out with a smug grin showing a missing front tooth. Barney let out a relieved laugh and punched Clint lightly in the shoulder.

“One day, I’ll make you say uncle the right way.” Barney swore – pinching Clint sharply on the arm.

“Ow” Clint hissed and yanked his arm away from his brother. “I’ll say it when pigs fly.”

Bucky stared at them before looking around. It hardly felt like a dream, he was far too aware of his surroundings and lack of reality for it to be a dream.

“What is this?” Bucky asked but neither of them reacted.

“I bet I can do it without needed a pig to sprout wings.” Barney flopped down to look at the sky. He reached over a hand and yanked the back of Clint’s shirt so he did the same.

“I bet it would count if you catapulted a pig. We could use one of Mr. Donaldson’s.” Clint contemplated, as he fidgeted.

“Good luck sneaking it past that guard dog of his.” Barney snorted, flicking Clint in the ear.

“Cut it.” Clint batted Barney’s hands away.

“Barton.” Bucky barked to no avail. He was completely invisible. He briefly thought about walking away but he found his feet planted on the ground. Clint was still as stubborn and stupid and fuckin ridiculous as a child. It made his whole body ache and his knees feel weak.

“-sides, Rusty ain’t mean, as long as you have some food for him.”

“Speaking of food – move it, Squirt. I want dinner.” Barney got up and held out a hand for Clint.

“Five more minutes.” Clint bargained while he studiously ignored the outreached hand.

“Clint.” Barney warned, his early good humour dripping away, as he let his hand drop back to his side.

“Mama’s home late and she promised she’d bring home leftover pie.”

“Leftover pie and dad.” Barney muttered darkly, too low for Clint but not low enough for supersoldier hearing. “There is one can of Chef Bouyarde left and I guess that means it’s mine.” Barney said loudly as he started to walk down the path. His ploy worked and within seconds Clint was up and running after his big brother.

“That’s my can. I won dibs when we played bottle caps.” Clint trailed hotly.

“Well I guess you’ll have to beat me to it.” Barney said smugly as he broke out into an easy run. Clint followed immediately, at a much quicker pace. Bucky was left stood on the road alone, listening to the slap of sneakers on the ground and competitive banter fading into the distance.

Bucky took one step to follow them and stopped. It was like giving a man dying of thirst a salt-water ocean. He had wanted to see Clint again so badly but not like this. He wanted to see the man he loved. Bucky looked up at the taupe sky and then between one blink and the next he was lying in his bed back at the Tower.

It was such a quick transition from dream to waking life that it disorientated him. Bucky lay in the dark for a minute while he processed the dream. The detail was so rich – it had truly felt like a memory or a film. Bucky’s dreams, even the ones filled with horrible memories, were never that vivid. It nagged him. Bucky pushed himself out of bed and with purpose, strode towards dressers where he had dumped the two photographs he’d found early that day.

With efficient steps, Bucky brought them back to the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. He settled back down and looked closely at the one of Clint and his brother. In the dream they were a bit older than in the photo.

Bucky took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, he was going to regret what he had to do next.

“FRIDAY, can you please ask Steve to join me in my quarters?”

“Certainly Sergeant Barnes.” FRIDAY replied. He truly was living in the 21st century. “Captain Rogers will be joining you shortly.”

Bucky could hear the elevator whirring and afterward the doors opened, the very quick footfalls of Steve walking with purpose towards the door.

“Bucky?” Steve inquired with a small knock.

“It’s open.” Bucky called back, immediately regretting his decision. He had no idea how to even broach the subject.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, surveying the room immediately upon entry. His eyes fell on the photos Bucky had showed him earlier that day. “Do you want to talk about it _now_?” Steve asked in that team leader voice that had Bucky rolling his eyes since the forties.

“No,” Bucky sighed and then ran a hand through his hair. “I had a really weird dream.” Steve didn’t immediately respond. It sounded far lamer out loud than it had in his head. Bucky forced himself to remember all the things about it that were off and pushed forward. “It was too vivid like a memory, but it wasn’t my memory.”

“Was it an implanted memory?” Steve asked immediately, worried.

“It wasn’t Hydra. It seemed like a memory Clint would have had. Except it was one he never told me about. It felt so real.” Bucky muttered, voice straining with frustration. Bucky hunched his shoulders and tossed the photos on the bedspread.

“What was the dream?”

“The two of them were roughhousing in the middle of a field and it got out of hand. I tried to intervene but they stopped, like puppets with their strings cut. When I backed off, it all resumed just as it had been before. They were like brothers, fighting and bickering, and then they ran back home and I woke up.”

“It sounds like those photos really got to you.” Steve said slowly, as he sat down and gathered the two photographs together to look at once more. “It makes sense you would have dreamed of him at this age, in that place.”

“It felt so different. I’ve dreamt of that field before too, a few nights ago before the photos and the sleeping pills from the doc.”

“You take one tonight?”

“No. I’m out.”

Steve hmmed in response and then continued, “If it wasn’t a dream, what do you think it could have been?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Bucky growled and pushed himself off the bed, putting distance between Steve and himself. “Banner wants me to do a fucking sleep study.”

“Maybe you should take him up on it.” Steve agreed earnestly.

“No.”

“Bucky.”

“Don’t Bucky me. You are the completely unreasonable one between the two of us.”

“Well maybe after almost a century you’ve finally rubbed off on me.” Steve ribbed gently

“Un-fucking-likely.” Bucky muttered and then sighed once more. “I’m sorry for waking you up and dragging you down here.”

“I think you should take up Dr Banner’s offer. If there is something off, he would be able to detect it.” Steve used that same tone he always had to convince Bucky to do something he was opposed to.

“Fine. Fucking fine. Now go away.”

“You’re very welcome.” Steve said with a smirk and headed towards the door.

“Am I really though?” Bucky rolled his eyes and waved Steve out. For a moment, Bucky stood, unsure of what to do next. The range. Shooting the shit out of things would calm him down and hopefully clear his head.

 

**Then**

Clint was starting to figure the system out. There was still a lot of confusion over which memories were ones he could skip out and which ones he would be forced to endure. So far the more traumatising, the more he had to stay put. Simple memories (ones of Barney being a bit of an asshole or finding his mother crying in her room) he could leave and wander about the world more freely though it was not clear why sometimes he could make it quite far before the blackness caught up and why other times it was only a few minutes.

He’d given up on hunting the creature for now. Fresh sutures and a slowly healing head wound made the odds even worse in a fight that was already stacked against him. He knew his limits and this probably required some superhuman intervention.

Clint had played with the radio for hours trying to replicate the brief interaction with the outside world but he couldn’t replicate it. The car hadn’t reappeared since.

The lack of sleep was getting to him and he kept catching himself thinking intrusive and completely nonsensical thoughts. He stared at Barney just this morning and contemplated what the scientific method for magic would look like, picturing blue prints of giraffes. SHIELD had trained him against sleep deprivation torture tactics but this was twice as the training and three times as long as Yemen.

Clint pushed himself up and walked into the bathroom. The man in the mirror looked haggard and old. He pushed his hair out of his eyes only to have it flop back down. With a sigh, Clint opened the mirrored cabinet to find the clippers his father used. Clint looked forward and slowly zoned out as he mechanically cut his hair into a choppy buzzcut. When he finished, Clint shook himself aware and started to laugh. He looked crazy. He looked like a 90s poster child for the just say no campaign.

“This is your brain on drugs” Clint imitated the famous advert and immediately started laughing. Slowly at first but then heavier and heavier until he was crying a bit. His father walked passed the open door dragging a crying Barney behind him.

Clint immediately stopped and dropped the smile. A month. Plus.

They had to be close. Clint gripped the edges of the sink until his knuckles were white and his forearms shook with effort. Clint needed them to be close.

Clint flicked his eyes back up at his hair and tried to ignore what was happening next door. Bucky would hate this haircut. He would go about fixing it and evening it up while bitching the whole time about how Clint never fucking learned. He’d do it with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, somehow keeping it in place despite all the talking. God, he was going to use this to get the sabbatical he’d been asking for for ages to take Bucky on a grand road trip from New York to California. They’d visit Kate in LA and then finally head down to Mexico to soak up sun, great food, and cheap liquor. They’d hit up route 66 and live off of diner food. Clint had wanted to show him the highlights of Middle America, and then later the Grand Canyon. They could set up shooting competitions in the desert and sleep under the stars. Clint had wanted to do a lot of things with Bucky. He would. They would get to do all that and then some.

Clint started to fill up the tub to drown out the sounds of Barney and his father. Barney had been good about staying out of their dad’s way and most beatings he got were because of Clint one way or another. Usually taking the rap for something Clint had done. The water filled slowly. Clint zoned out. Something smashed against the shared wall. It jolted him to awareness. The tub was almost overfilling. Fuck. Clint turned off the tabs and then let a few inches drain from the tub before it was at the right height.

He shucked off his clothes and sunk into the water. It took some manoeuvring to get his six foot plus frame in a position that let him submerge every part of his head but his face in the water. Once his ears were below, everything around him went blissfully quiet. With a hum he scooted down a bit further, the water resting close to his eyes. The water wasn’t warm the way he’d kill for but it was soothing still.  All he could hear was the water gently lapping against the sides of the tub and his own heartbeat, steadily beating. It sent him off into a deep sleep.

Clint awoke in his bedroom, in bed, with Bucky lying beside him, sleeping fitfully. Clint blinked in confusion and laid stock-still for one second, two seconds. Then an instant he was moving.

“Bucky, thank god. I have had the worst month-long vacation of my life.” Clint knew better than to shake Bucky awake. “Bucky?”

The other man was such a light sleeper. He would have….no. Clint looked around the room. The table by the couch was covered in an alarming number of empty vodka bottles. He could just be passed out. Bucky himself looked tired even though he was sleeping. There was a pile of Clint’s stuff in the corner, some of it broken, like it had been piled there in a drunken fit.

Clint called out to FRIDAY but received no response. Dread hung heavy in his stomach. Clint reached out one tentative hand to shake Bucky. He was solid but not warm beneath his fingers. It felt like Clint was touching him with gloves on even though his hands were bare. He was breathing at least. With great reluctance he got up. He had so few opportunities to gather information. He turned back to Bucky and tucked strand of hair behind his ear and gave him a chaste kiss.

Clint found Stark in his usual lab working on his suit and what looked like some equipment for Nat. There were screens on the side of the lab with feeds on certain other areas of the tower. There was also one with the date, time, and weather. He’d been gone 36 days.  On another feed, he saw the cube sitting in an empty abandoned lab.

“No, no, no” Clint muttered dismayed and turned back to Tony. Clint grabbed at the robot arm in Tony’s hands and tried to throw it on the ground. “I’m still fucking in there you asshole.” Clint yelled except when he threw the arm, nothing happened. He felt it in his hands and felt the heft of it, but it was like phantom sensations because in his hands were nothing, the arm remained on the table.

Clint slammed his fists down next to Tony’s arm and closed his eyes to try and calm down. “Fuck.” Clint yelled failing. “Fuck.” Clint repeated even louder. Tony continued on the arm, oblivious. Clint turned around with the intention to go back upstairs to at least see his boyfriend once more before the inevitable but were the door was, there was not just blackness. Clint turned back around to Tony except here was nothing but a void that way as well. He pivoted 90 degrees, feeling trapped.  The Darkness swooped in after that – Clint turned back to where the door should have been and in the distance, in that blackness was a light. A light that was getting bigger and rushing upon Clint with alarming speeds. Clint took a half step back and the light hit him like a freight train. Clint blinked once and twice only to realise that he was under water. In the bath. Drowning. Clint pulled himself up with half-cooperating limbs. He took great gulps of air as he surfaced before his body was wracked with wet coughs that made his eyes water. Through the blurred vision he could make out movement to his right. His mother moved to stand over him. As Clint blinked the tears away, he could see tear tracks down her utterly impassive face. She looked at him the way she looked out the window while doing dishes, with distant disinterest. Clint remained stock still, waiting to see if she would reboot and carry on as usual.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” his mother crooned, “Mama loves you.” She said it to him over and over again, voice filled with a deep sorrow. Clint reached out to grab her hand but she ignored it as she knelt down beside the tub and placed one cold hand on Clint’s chest, and the other on his head. Then with one great sob, she pushed him down with that supernatural strength his father had had that first day.

Clint may have been in shock but his body acted immediately and begun thrashing, using his years of training to try and dislodge her. He could not get her to budge. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes as Clint tried to break his mother’s hold, landing brutal bone breaking hits against his mother’s elbow. Clint was running out of time and he had only one strategy left. It required him to fight every instinct in his body to play opossum and cease all movement, play dead. Clint forced himself to push out the fear and the panic and simply relax his whole body. Clint stilled completely and counted the seconds in his mind: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. By the time Clint reached 7 he was unsure if he could maintain it. Just when Clint felt the old panic begin to claw its way up his throat, the pressure on his chest and head ceased and Clint shot up to the surface taking in one deep breath.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” his mother wept quietly, “Mama loves you.”

Clint scrambled out of the tub and past his mother, adrenaline setting his teeth on edge. He coughed deeply, throat raw and tight.

“I’m so sorry, baby. Mama loves you.” His mother cooed, arms still deep in the bathwater. She wasn’t looking at him anymore.

Clint threw on the pants and shirt that were crumbled on the floor and with uneven legs moved along the wall until he reached the door. Clint stumbled over his younger self, crying on the top step for a reason that Clint couldn’t be bothered to suss at the moment. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Even if his younger self could hear him what would he say? It gets better until an alien cube sends you back here and then it really actually gets much worse. His mother had never hurt him like that. She hurt him in a million other ways but never physically. She had never laid hands on him like that.

Clint ran out of the house and forward into the overgrown field to the east. His hands moved on instinct as he climbed the large bur oak tree that abutted the rotting fence. Two arrows still lodged in the ground at the bottom. As a child he had looked at this tree and wished he were stronger or faster or that he could fly because he was certain if he was able to climb it than his father would be incapable of reaching him. Honestly, he probably was, but he wasn’t the monster to fear.

Clint leaned back against the large trunk, his legs straddled the highest branch that would easily hold his weight, and he took the time to calm down and re-centre himself. He didn’t know if he had another 36 days in him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Then**

He couldn’t sleep. He’d waited out the nerves in the tree until the black started to creep in over the horizon. Then he’d waited out the spectres until they were all out of the house. Sleep felt great but he never woke up nicely. A deep purple hand print was bruised into his chest and his lungs and throat still felt weak.

It was too quiet.

Clint rolled over and pushed his face into the sofa. Sleep would help him think clearly. He readjusted the cushion beneath his head and settled back down. He rolled back over to lie on his other side, waited for a minute, sighed, and then got up. He didn’t want to be in this house any more.

 

**

 

Clint kicked a rock down the dirt path between corn fields and listened to Barney give one of his signature pep talks about how Clint was an idiot and how he should try to stop being an idiot any day now.  

The worst part of this hellcube was Barney. Clint’s father had and would always be a monstrous asshole and his mother had and would always be weak when they needed her to be strong but Barney? Barney had always been bigger and taller and meaner except that he hadn’t always been just that. He’d been Clint’s hero and his saviour and his only friend for years until he wasn’t any of those things at all. Clint still had the scar on his stomach from where Barney had shot him but Barney had died with his own scars too. Had died alone in Waverly of all places.

“Shut up, squirt. Reading is easy and if you don’t find it easy then you are fucked for the rest of all time in school.” Barney said casually and flicked a bottle cap into the jar they had set up a few feet away.

“Reading is stupid.” LC grumbled and mimicked the trick, the cap hit the inside rim of the jar and made a clanging noise as it rebounded around the inside of the can before clinking neatly in the bottom.

“No, you are stupid. Stupid is as stupid does,” Barney said in the deepest tone he could make to imitate their dad. “And all you do is stupid through and through.” The bottle cap Barney shot off, hit the can side with an emphatic ting before it skittered along the dirt.

“Like what?” LC demanded hotly, missing the can entirely in his anger.

“Like yesterday?” Barney said with an eyeroll and flicked the bottle cap at LC. “Stupid is complaining about canned green beans when Dad actually bothered to put some food on the table.”

“I don’t like canned vegetables. They’re watery and taste like earwax.” LC mumbled petulantly and sank back down stiffly. Wrong end of the belt. Bottom rib.

“So you eat your own earwax? Stupid and gross.” Barney flicked another bottle cap at LC’s forehead but he undercut his words with a small teasing smile. “I bet you a nickel you can’t get that bottle cap in by hitting the ground first.”

LC stood up quickly and looked at the can with deep concentration.

“Deal.” LC agreed and placed the bottlecap on his left palm and tilted his left hand at an angle steep enough that gravity was actively working against him. With one hard flick, the bottle cap his the dirt ground at a high speed and bounced back into the air, landing in the can with a small thunk.

LC let out a long and high “Yes” that was only cut short when Barney swiped out LC’s legs from underneath him and sent him sprawling forward into the can.

 

**

 

His mom and dad were laughing, dancing cheek to cheek to the radio. His dad was stocky but he moved lightly as ever, twirling his mother out and back into his arms. His mother’s long thin limbs stretched gracefully out before folding back over his broad shoulders. Every now and then, his dad would try and sing the lyrics he recognised until he just gave up and started making up his own about his beautiful Edie as he had liked to call her. Clint crossed his arms and tried not to stare from where he was perched on the back of the couch.

Behind the sofa, sneaking a peak at the unfolding scene was LC in hand-me-down pajama pants that were too short. His back was covered in smudges of dust and dirt that did little to hide the darker smudges with tell-tale belt buckle imprints. LC was smiling though. Happiness, when it had occurred, had been fairly contagious. Clint sighed bone deep and tried to distract himself by ranking Brooklyn pizza joints in his head but he kept getting distracted by the giggles and laughter floating in from the kitchen.

“I’ve never known a girl as fair or pretty” His dad sang off key, mispronouncing pretty to rhyme with Edie.

“Harry,” Edith begged with embarrassed delight, “we both went to school with Debbie Mitchell.”

“Debbie who? I only had eyes for you” His dad folded into the song and swung her around again.

Clint looked down at his younger counterpart and sighed. “He’s drunk you know and so is she. It’s not real. It was never real when it was like this.” Clint paused a few seconds and then added, “No reply? That’s just rude but I’ll give you a pass though, seeing as I know how this night ends.” Clint had tried to go upstairs earlier and later tried to head out the door but both times he’d been blocked.

“I’m turning into Wade Wilson” Clint said with sudden realisation and then buried his head in his hands. “Oh god, this must be the worst timeline. Oh god, that is exactly something he would say.”

“Harry, stop.” Edith laughed and tried to cover her reddening cheeks.

“Why because I can’t compliment my fucking wife?” Harold snapped. His grip on her turned from loving to pressing.

“The moods – so fucking moody – that was the worst bit. God you were worse than a teenage girl.” Clint grumbled and pointedly looked at the wall to his left so that his parents were only in his peripheral.

“Of course, baby. I love it when you say those things, I’m just being stupid.” His mom tried to soothe his dad but it was too fucking late.

“Yeah you are. Why do you insist on ruining a good night with your terrible attitude? Is it so much to ask that after a long day that I can’t come home and have a good time dancing with my wife?”

 “Long day doing what exactly?” Clint heckled from across the room to no reaction.

“Of course not. Come one baby, it’s our song.” She said swaying her hips a bit, encouragingly.

“You’ve ruined it now.” Harold shoved her away and when she tried to reinstate the dancing position again, he slapped first her hands away and then her face once, hard enough for the slap to echo along the walls.

“Harry.” Edith gasped, tears gathering in her eyes the same time that LC gave a roar of indignant fury, well as much of a roar as a six year old could manage, as he emerged from the couch and charged at his father full-tilt.

“You don’t hurt her.” LC cried out as he struck his dad once, and then twice with his small fists in his father’s stomach. His dad looked down and blinked once in absolute confusion before his lip curled up into an ugly snarl.

“I am the man of this fucking house.” Harold growled swiping at LC once and making contact with his shoulder. The hit itself wouldn’t have hurt but it had caused him to fly to the side and smack his head hard against the corner edge of a side cabinet. “I will be goddamn respected.” LC’s body slumped to the ground like a rag doll. His mother tried to run over but was stopped by Harold as he grabbed her arms with bruising force.

“Harry, he’s bleeding. Oh god.” She cried and Clint watched her twist against the tight grip, arms already blossoming red from the hold. LC was blinking confusedly as blood poured down from a cut through his eyebrow.

“He can walk it off like a fucking man.” Harold let go and turned around to grab LC and try and right him on his feet. “Go on, show your mother you are fine.” Harold was obviously irate but underneath it, Clint could see the fear now, something he never clocked as a kid. LC just swayed on his feet, the bleeding getting worse as it now dripped onto the floor.

“I’m fi –“ LC started but before he could finish the word he folded over at the waist and threw up all over his father.

“Fucking disgusting.” Harold reared back and threw LC back onto the floor, his head barely missing the same cabinet again. This time he didn’t stop Edith as she rushed forward and folded LC into her arms.

“Baby, baby look at me. Harold this is going to need stitches.” Edith brushed LC’s hair back.

“We don’t have money for stitches.”

“I’ll work more shifts. Please.” His mother begged, tears freely falling.

“Fine. Goddamn it. Last thing we fucking need.” Harold muttered under his breath as he got up and hunted for the car keys. Meanwhile his mother manoeuvred LC so that he was standing again. Her eyes drifted down to the heavily bruised back and a tight frown furrowed her brow and pinched her mouth.

“Let’s get you a shirt okay.” Edith cooed as she picked LC up and took him upstairs to change. “You were running down the hall and tripped and hit your head. You remember?” She asked as she reached the stop of the stairs.

“No, Dad hit me.” LC said groggily.

“No baby, tripped. You were running and tripped and hit your head. It’s why you are so dizzy and confused right now.” His mom repeated the lie over and over as she made soothing noises and gently caressed LC’s hair and pressed kisses on the crown of his head.

Clint looked to his father who was just constantly swearing under his breath, throwing on shoes and a jacket. Barney had slept through all of it even when he’d been brought into their shared room to be changed. Clint finally got up, unfolding his legs and rising with a contained anger. Three strides and he was close enough to the cabinet to pick it up a few feet before smashing it on the ground. His father’s spectre stopped what it was doing to stare at Clint in that awful vacant way that set his teeth on edge. For a long minute they stayed in that staring contest, Harold completely passive and empty and Clint chest heaving with frustration. Clint breathed once, twice, and then let it out with a defeated sigh.

“You were a dick and I’m glad you’re six feet under.” Clint spat before turning to go collapse back onto the ratty sofa. A few seconds later, the whole thing resumed again like Clint hadn’t interrupted; Harold Barton failing to tie up his shoes once, twice, before succeeding the third time. God that man had driven him to the hospital that night.

A few minutes later, Edith came back down the stairs with a towel pressed firmly to LC’s head who was now wearing a long-sleeve shirt to cover up the bruising.

“I tripped.” LC sniffled miserably.

“I know it’ll be okay. I promise.” His mom, soothed.

“Let’s go before the whole night is a wash,” His father huffed from the door. Clint watched them leave the front door but when he moved to follow them a few seconds later, the driveway was empty and when he turned back into the house, a new scene was already unfolding as his mother cried at the kitchen table by herself. From his position at the front door he could see the kitchen table where his mother was hunched over, weeping openly, and the top of the stairs where both LC and Barney sat looking unmoored and deeply uncertain.

Clint looked down, there was still blood on his hands from where he had grabbed the cabinet. With a small shrug he walked over to the sofa and collapsed on it for the second time that day. If they hurt him, they hurt him. At least he’d get some sleep first.

 

**Now**

“It is 5.30 in the goddamn morning? What are you doing here Nat?” Bucky bit out. He had been properly and deeply asleep for the first time in months.

Natasha lifted up and waved what looked like a black washbag.

“You need a haircut and a shave. When you look good, you feel good.”

“What I need is sleep and I was actually getting some for once.”

“You’ll feel better when I’m done. Looking human is a big part of feeling human. Now are you going to invite me in?” Nat asked with a deceptive sweetness. Bucky didn’t move.

“What are you doing Natalia?”

“I told you before. I made promises.”

“And that involves babying me out of grief?” Bucky snapped. Natasha crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow looking entirely unimpressed.

“You will grieve in one way or another for the rest of your life. I let you fail to cope with it for 3 months. I have lost one close friend and I refuse to lose another.”

Bucky sighed and moved out of the way to let her in.

“Go have a shower. With shampoo.”

“I know how to goddamn shower,” Bucky grumbled under his breath as he headed for the bathroom.

“Prove it.” Nat said without looking up from where she was tidying the living room.

By the time Bucky left the bathroom, steam billowing behind him, his apartment looked picture perfect.

“You’ve been busy.” Bucky commented.

“Not that busy.”

“So am I acceptable now?”

“You’ll do. We’ll shave you first and you can decide if you want it short of long. I can do either.”

Bucky let himself be led back into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub as directed. With efficient hands, Nat had him lathered and shaved with a straight razor within minutes. As she wiped his face clean, she gave Bucky a pleased smile.

“Much better. Now short or long?”

“Long. I’m too recognisable if it’s short.” Bucky said and hoped Nat picked up the meaning. She probably could. He couldn’t have people forgetting just who he was for 70 years.

Nat gave him a considering look before nodding once. She moved to grab a towel and draped it over Bucky’s shoulders and began to comb out shower-damp hair.

“You’ve done this before, right?” Bucky asked as she reached for the scissors in the unfolded kit.

“Yes. On myself in fact.”

“And on men?”

“Yes.” Nat said shortly, providing no further details. Neither of them spoke again as Nat started cutting. The quiet snipping made the small hairs on Bucky’s neck stand on end. Five minutes later, Nat tucked the scissors away and then used her hands to shake his hair out. “All done.”

Bucky caught himself in the mirror was he stood. Nat had done a good job.

“Can I get back to my day now?” Bucky asked instead of saying thanks. Nat rolled her eyes.

“Certainly.” Nat packed her kit away and brushed past Bucky. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky went out to in search of coffee. He felt good, well good for his new normal, but good. A proper night’s sleep; weeks without disturbing new dreams just the old ones he’s used to of cold, and falling, and a chair; and the shave had done him good.

Not even seeing Sam Wilson at the kitchen island could ruin the mood.

“Don’t” Bucky pre-empted at the same time that Sam said “Looking good.”

Undeterred, Sam continued, “Was it Nat?”

Bucky scowled and headed for the coffee. Sam just laughed at him.

“She’s on a one-woman mission.”

“I can’t be fixed. Not without a miracle or some new magic user who can bring people back from the dead.” Bucky bit out. Sam’s smile immediately became serious.

“We know that, Bucky. None of us are trying to do anything but help you get back to a place where your life is bigger than your grief. It’ll be there forever, trust me, I know. It stays and there are days when it gets small enough you think maybe it’s over and then, there are other days where it takes up every second and every inch of space.”

“Sounds swell.”

“You need me to sugar coat it?”

“We need to have this conversation?”

Sam laughed again humorlessly and shrugged his shoulders.

“No, we don’t. Have a good day Barnes!”

Bucky made himself a quick breakfast of granola with a side of muffins and some fruit out of the bowl. When he sat down, it was blissfully quiet with no good intentions and talking about feelings.

 

**

 

Bruce circled back around the hospital bed that Bucky was tensely lying in, humming lightly to himself as he rechecked the equipment for a second time. With a small nod, he looked back up at Bucky and gave him a small smile.

“Everything is in order. Is there anything we can do to help you sleep? I’ll lower the lights but perhaps some music?”

“Whatever.” Bucky mumbled, anxiety filling his chest.

“It’s going to be completely painless. This should just give us a good idea of any unusual brain patterns. It won’t tell us what you are seeing or anything but that is what this note pad is for. Whenever you wake up, I want you to immediately write down what you remember.” Bruce continued on undeterred by Bucky’s sullenness.

“Let’s just get this over.”

“I’ll be in an observation room, monitoring your vitals and so will FRIDAY. FRIDAY, the lights please?” Bruce flicked a switch and then gave everything a visual once over before he turned around and headed towards the door.

“Certainly.” The main lights dimmed slowly until they were completely off while a couple of the wall sconces dimmed to low enough levels that the room was comfortably dark enough to sleep in without it being pitch black.

Bucky spent a few minutes hitting pillows and trying different sleeping positions before he finally found one to settle in. He closed his eyes, focused on slowing his breathing down manually, within a few moments he drifted asleep.

Bucky awoke a few hours later from one of the best sleeps he'd had in years. It was so fucking typical. Bucky ripped off the headcap and pulled at the wires on his chest. This disappointment stuck in his gut like a knife. In a way though, there was also relief. If he had had a dream and Banner had turned around and said it was just regular sleep then Bucky would have nothing, except answers he really didn’t want. He heard the door bang open and didn’t bother looking up, he knew it was Banner.

“Mr Barnes, if you could please not.” Banner said as he came up and tried to unspool the wires from the tangle that Bucky had created in his haste to get out of there.

“Pointless. This whole thing is pointless.” Bucky lurched out of the bed, yanking off the last wire taped to his chest.

“I would honestly prefer to run this test for the next few nights. Most sleep studies require at least two to three nights to be fully accurate. Additionally, your baseline is different from the standard human. I imagine it’s because you require less sleep, like Steve?”

“I just had a couple of dreams that were weird but we all do, don’t we? I’m sorry to waste your time.”

“Studying sleep patterns of super soldiers is actually not a waste of time and could actually lead to some interesting research on –“ Bucky cut of Banner with a hand wave.

“No, thank you.” Bucky said firmly headed towards the door. With a grimace, he slowed his steps and turned to look at Banner with a chagrined expression. “Maybe try Steve.” Bucky offered knowing Steve would say no. Both of them were done with being prodded for science.

Banner put down the wires in his hands and gave Bucky a thoughtful expression. “Would you like breakfast? I was in the mood for shakshuka.”

Bucky weighed the option in his head before shaking his head. “I’ll be in the range if and when Steve asks.”

 

**

 

The range always cleared his head. There was ritual and routine in the practice from assembling the gun, performing the safety checks, to the lovely sink of concentration as Bucky took out each target. FRIDAY sped it up gradually enough that it took hours before it was going too fast for even Bucky to manage most targets purposefully. He hit targets still, unpredictably and never in the centre. Bucky shut off the training program and started the ritual of disassembling the gun, cleaning it, and tidying up the range. He wasn’t happy, but the disappointment and anxiety had dissipated over the hours along with the confusion and the odd sense of guilt that had been there underneath it all.

Bucky stopped at his rooms for a quick shower and change and then went down to the communal kitchen, hoping that there was at least some leftovers from the breakfast that Banner had said he would make. He had also been hoping for something empty, and had gotten the complete opposite. It was some sort of couples lunch – Tony and Pepper, Steve and Sharon, and Nat and Sam, all sat around a table, laughing with each other. When they spotted Bucky, the room immediately got a bit awkward, as they fell into an unnatural silence. All that calm that Bucky had fought hard to get at the range shattered immediately.

“Want to pull up a seat? We’ve got plenty of lunch to go around?” Steve offered but Bucky just rolled his eyes and let out a grunt that hopefully got his resounding ‘no’ across. Bucky opened the fridge door and ignored the looks he knew were being directed his way.

“Lunch? Don’t be a heathen Captain Spangles, we have mimosas which makes this officially brunch.” Tony piped in before immediately plunging back into the quiet conversation he was having with Pepper over vacation spots.

“The clear mixture of both breakfast and lunch items should have also been a giveaway.” Sam added with a smirk.

Bucky grabbed the largest Tupperware container in the fridge and a fork from the drawer and started back for the door. That explained why Steve hadn’t bothered chasing him up. He hadn’t even realised that Sharon was in town – last he heard she had been in Indonesia.

“That better not be my grandmother’s leftover chicken and rice casserole.” Sam said to Bucky’s retreating back. Bucky didn’t even look back, he just flashed Sam the finger and continued for the elevators.

“Asshole. I drove to DC to pick that up.” Bucky’s superhearing picked up but he continued on regardless. Two months ago, Clint and him would also be at that table; Clint would get into the most ridiculous debates with Stark over things like what was better IHOP or Waffle House even though Stark had been to neither. Bucky would steal all the bacon off Clint’s plate and purposefully wind up Sam over Nat. Inevitably it would end with Nat and Clint one upping each other on most ridiculous mission even though they had spent 99% of their missions together. Bucky was an asshole and without Clint as a buffer, it was like he was unsure how to interact with any of them anymore – except for Steve.

Bucky got back to his room and sat down by the TV. He turned it on, staring unseeing at whatever was playing and mechanically ate what turned out to be the pretty delicious chicken and rice casserole. Bucky wanted to kill something. Or at least punch something really hard and repeatedly. He switched over to the news with a sigh, and bit back another sigh when the news showed an absolutely disaster-free weekend.

He was expecting Steve when the inevitable knock at the door occurred but he honestly should not have been as surprised as he was to see Nat there, looking effortlessly aloof as she pushed her way into the quarters without so much as an eyebrow lift asking for permission.

“Yes, Natalia, come on in.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he closed the door and followed her to the couch where she sat down, tucking her feet beneath her legs as she rested one arm along the back of the couch.

“Not talking is not helping you.” Nat supplied unhelpfully.

“I talk all the fucking time.” Bucky countered as he leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his arms.

“To Steve and that hardly counts.” Nat dismissed with a small wave of her hand. “Steve didn’t know Clint. At least he didn’t know him in the ways that counted.”

Bucky ducked his head slightly and looked away from her. He pursed his lips together as he refused to answer.

“He didn’t know the way Clint made himself completely vulnerable to the few he let past his forty layers of defense mechanisms. He doesn’t know what it was like to have been loved by Clint; the way Clint could make you feel like being yourself was the simplest and greatest gift you could ever give him. He never got to see the greedy side of Clint that never wanted you to leave, not even for a second, nor that other side of Clint that warred with that instinct and would push us away even when he needed us the most.”

Bucky clenched his jaw and found his whole body tensing. Being jealous was so completely irrational and unhelpful, especially now. “Does this have a point?”

“Yes, a rather obvious one. I understand what you have lost moreso than anyone else on the planet. I won’t understand it fully, just as you can’t understand what I lost either, but I am someone who will be able to truly listen. Also, I know a bar where we can speak Russian and no one will blink an eye at how much vodka we will be ordering.”

“Won’t Sam be missing you?” Bucky said almost grimacing outwardly at how much bitterness had seeped into the question. Nat just raised one eyebrow and gracefully got up, ignoring the question. “Fine, let me get a jacket.”

 

**

 

The bar was a complete dive bar in a scuzzy corner of Brighton Beach filled with Russian expats and with a wall of enough brands of vodka to put even Stark’s impressive drinks cabinet to shame. Nat made a motion to the bartender as they sat themselves in a corner with good sight lines of the exits and away from the few scattered regulars. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with bleached hair and a face that clearly explained just how little shit she could tolerate, came by with a full bottle and two shot glasses.

< _This is where I come to let off steam and if I ever see you here without an invite I will tell Steve what you did to his shield_. > Nat switched into Russian and though her words were soft, her face belied the seriousness of the order.

< _Deal_ > Bucky replied.

< _So the rules are as follows: we are taking shots in turn and after each one we will say something truthful_ > Nat explained as she efficiently opened the bottle and poured two perfect shots.

< _And afterwards I’ll be magically better?_ > Bucky said flatly

< _Of course not. You’ll be marginally better._ > Nat drank the shot unflinchingly. < _Clint Barton taught me how to be a person again._ > Nat never pulled her punches. Bucky reached for his shot, immediately refilled it once he was finished and took a second shot.

< _He was a better shot than me_ > Bucky admitted easily, though he would have never ever contemplated letting Clint know that. < _I had to practice for hours with odd weapons so that I could win in some of our more elaborate competitions and he’d still beat me on his first attempt more often than not._ >

< _He let you win those._ > Nat supplied with a teasing smile. < _He told the dirtiest jokes._ >

< _He gave the best advice that he never followed_. > Bucky repoured them both another shot from the already half empty bottle.

< _Clint made some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten and some of the very worst._ > Nat confessed and that made Bucky huff a small laugh.

< _Do you remember Steve’s face when he tried that tuna and broccoli pizza casserole? I couldn’t even get past the smell._ >

< _You missed out on a jellied eel casserole he made for us at a safe house in England. Clint ate the whole thing._ >

< _I never figured out if it was a Midwestern thing or a circus thing._ > Bucky admitted, with a far more somber tone.

< _Both. It was both. The circus just taught him that casseroles could be made with more foreign ingredients._ >

They traded back and forth into their second and then their third bottle. By the third bottle they were both well into tipsy despite their accelerated metabolisms.

< _Phil and I found him petting the cartel boss’ dog. The two of us had cleared out the second largest operation in Colombia by ourselves, 25 dead and over 100 secured in custody all while Clint rolled around with a dog on the floor because he had forgotten to set his watch to the right time zone and he hadn’t realised the mission had already started and finished without him. I made him do all my paperwork for a year._ >

< _But his paperwork was terrible._ >

< _Only because he learned early on that someone else in SHIELD would just redo it properly for him – usually Phil._ > Nat finished with an affectionate eyeroll. There was a comfortable pause while they both drifted through other memories. The silence morphed into something a bit more awkward as Bucky contemplated asking Nat some questions he wasn’t certain Nat could or even should answer. Nat, as observant as ever, poured another round and waited Bucky out.

< _I found pictures when we were emptying his loft._ > Bucky eventually said slowly, each word eking out of his mouth. Nat unhelpfully did not respond. < _Of his family. He never talked about them._ >

< _I imagine from their contents you figured out why._ > Nat replied simply. Bucky nodded. < _I only found out about Barney when Clint asked me to help him bury him._ > Nat continued. < _His childhood imbued in him that sense of injustice that drove him to keep up with us gods and monsters but it also damaged him. Then again, we are all damaged in some way or another; I think it is the only way any of us can do what we do._ >

Bucky nodded into his vodka

< _We weren’t perfect together. We had problems and so many fights over how he didn’t take care of himself enough and how I couldn’t let myself enjoy things. Some of the fights make more sense now._ >

< _It always does. What is that American idiom, hindsight is 20/20._ > Nat placed her slender hand over Bucky’s flesh hand, and have a good squeeze. They sat in silence again but when Bucky broke it this time, it was with the slightest mischievous smirk that only Nat would pick up.

< _Did he ever tell you what we really got up to Paris?_ >

Nat pushed the vodka bottle towards him and leaned back in her seat with a ‘do tell’ smirk.

 

**

Nat and Bucky stumbled back into the Tower late enough that the communal areas were empty. Nat had started sobering up earlier because she never let herself get too drunk but Bucky hadn’t bothered and was now the drunkest in public he had been since the war.

“I used to do this” Bucky slurred in English.

“Get hammered and have Steve who was half your size carry you home?” Nat asked sweetly as she dropped him in the elevator with a large thud.

“No. Go out drinking with good-looking redheads. Though there would have been more dancing back in the day. Clint is – was- probably teachable.” Bucky stumbled over the words. “He had a very good sense of rhythm but he had no moves whatsoever. It woulda been nice to take a fella out for once instead of all those girls.”

“I know all about what you got up to before and during the war - I’ve seen the HBO miniseries.” Nat said dryly.

“The documentary or that awful garbage soap?”

“Both.” Nat replied primly and stepped over Bucky to enter the elevator.

Bucky ambled up, using the wall to stabilise himself as he pulled himself upright and on his two feet.

“Was this what you did for those three weeks after? When you disappeared?” Bucky asked, feeling a bit more sober as his metabolism started to finally catch up now that no more liquor was forthcoming.

“Amongst other things.”

“You would think I would be used to loss by now. I lost everything including myself for damn near a century.” Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his fist once before releasing it. “Fuck.” The elevator stopped at Bucky’s floor and the doors opened.

< _To give is to honour_ > Nat began.

< _To love is to grieve_ > Bucky finished. < _Good night Natalia_ >. Bucky didn’t look back as he walked towards his room, using the wall to keep himself steady. The saying bandied around in his head as he collapsed on top of the bed, not bothering to even remove his boots, and fell asleep between one breath and the next.

**

He was stood in that cornfield again. There were no children screaming this time. The wind blew from seeming every direction and it caused his hair to whip into his face. The wind chimes were to his left and he followed the sound of them.

He had no idea how long he walked through the corn, the stalks scratching against his bare arm. Eventually though, he broke clear to a rotting fence and beyond it the house from the photo. It stood tall and bleak, chipped and worn. As he got closer he could hear a pounding coming from within the house itself. Bucky picked up his pace.

He took the steps two at a time and strode forward to the screen door. He could hear a muffled adult male voice along with loud banging.

The house was empty, a long hallway stretched out in front of him. A door on the right at the end of the hall, thumped hard against its hinges, dust puffing out into the air. There was a large slide lock keeping the door from opening. The pounding picked up in pace. Whoever, whatever was behind there was getting desperate. His ears picked up the soft sounds of a child weeping. Bucky moved quickly to the door, performing quick shoulder checks. The slide lock was stiff but moved. At the sound of the lock moving the noise behind the door abruptly stopped.

Bucky opened the door.

“Oh thank god. I’d move it pipsqueak this may be your only break for it because the first time round he forgot about us.” Clint said looking backward, addressing someone in the dark as he emerged into the light.

“Clint?”

Clint whipped around, arms coming up into fighting position instinctually. He stopped walking and blinked owlishly for a long second. He had dirt in his badly shorn hair and dark bruises under his eyes but he stood in front of Bucky, real and breathing and whole. Clint took a step back, eyes squinting in assessment.

“Bucky?” Clint asked slowly.

Bucky moved immediately, pulling Clint against his body and holding him close. He took one shuttering breath which turned into another and finally he was just crying silently into Clint’s shoulder.

“You’re warm.” Clint said dumbly. “You’re warm.” He repeated with more force. Then, he was hugging back, hands clutching at Bucky, and fingers digging in so deep it almost hurt.

They stood like that for a long time and then Clint pushed Bucky back.

“Thank god. Please tell me you’ve come here to get me out.”

“Get you out?”

“Of the cube…” Clint said slowly, face shutting down, before it rebooted with a pasted on smile. It was even less convincing on his pale and thin face than usual. “Yeah, that cube zapped me here, to my own private Iowa.”

“The whole time. You’ve been here.”

“Yup. Surprise!” Clint waved his hands a bit. Bucky’s stomach lurched.

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

Clint’s eyes flashed with anger.

“Don’t do what? Make the best of a shit show. I know you guys all buried me and moved on okay.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Bucky pulled Clint back in who remained resistant at first and then sunk into the hug with a deep practiced ease.

Outside, lights flashed through the front door, the sky outside had darkened to a low evening light. A car was coming along the dirt road, pulling up to the house. Clint stiffened in his arms and pulled away, grabbing Bucky’s hand.

“We need to go.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere but here.” Clint said with a dark edge and pulled Bucky to the front door.

The car stopped and the engine cut out. The two occupants were shouting at each other. Clint didn’t bat an eye as his father got out of the car and physically dragged his wife out of the car from his side of the car, over the middle divider and across the driver’s seat. She twisted in his grasp and struck out at him unseeing and panicked.

Clint kept walking, turning his back on the scene and headed towards a field. Bucky followed, his gaze lingering on the two figures as they stumbled into the house, both hitting the other in a rage though it was clear who the ‘winner’ of the fight would be. He came from a time when domestic violence in the home was more common and while his father had hit him, his sisters and their mother on occasion, it had never looked like that. It was usually one slap in anger and then it ended.

They walked for five minutes before Bucky finally opened his mouth again.

“What were you doing in the basement, Clint?”

Clint ignored him and pulled himself up so he was sitting on the fence. Bucky crowded in close so he stood in the ‘v’ of Clint’s legs and brought up a hand, thumb wiping at a smudge of dirt on Clint’s cheek. 

“Has it been like that the whole time?” He tried again.

Clint looked away to the horizon and shrugged a bit. When he turned to look at Bucky though, his eyes were serious and piercing.

“You have to get me out. I can’t. I tried.” Clint stopped and bit his lip. Bucky recognised that look, and just as always he kept his mouth shut, waited for Clint to speak again. After ten seconds of silence, Clint continued, “It’s not safe and it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer…” Clint trailed off. Bucky’s clenched the fence on either side of Clint’s sides hard enough for the wood to grown beneath his fingers.

“Stark’s got a new team but they don’t have much to work on.” Bucky admitted.

“Well it’s alien and I’m fucking in it. Maybe that’ll help them.”

“Clint.” Bucky growled. Clint looked so tired and young in a way that just made him seem vulnerable.

“I think there is a psychic component.”

“Why?”

“Because I think that for the first few days I was in here, it was reading my mind, crafting this world you see around you. It knows my memories and the more anxious I am, the more it makes me. I can’t explain it. Just, it knows when I really don’t want to stick around for certain memories and it’ll put up barriers and obstacles so I have to stick around.”

“Alien and psychic. Anything else?”

“I miss you.”

“I love you too.” Bucky replied, soft in the way he only ever let himself be with Clint, as he leaned in to press his forehead against Clint’s. He could hear the hitch in Clint’s breath at the words, the way his hands trembled against Bucky’s sides.

To the right, the sky went from a dim grey to a pitch, endless black. Clint immediately pushed off the fence.

“We need to get back to the house.” Clint started heading towards the house as the black descended like a wave. “ _Now_.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s one of the obstacles I was telling you about.” The blackness swept in front of them. Soon only the house was visible in the distance, illuminated and seeming to float in the black.

Clint was starting to run, dragging Bucky behind him. Large, loping footsteps were coming up behind Bucky, crunching in the dry grass, and it set his teeth on edge. Something was out there. The house was 60 yards away and then suddenly, it was gone and there was just blackness everywhere.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Clint chanted as he slowed his pace.

“What’s going on?” Bucky bit out.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s only weakness is the light and there’s no light.” Clint sounded desperate and scared. Bucky gripped his hand tighter and took the lead pulling them to where the house had been.

The footsteps were getting closer.

“What is that?”

“A creature. My warden. I don’t really know but it can hurt you.” Clint stumbled on something but righted himself immediately.

A two-toned growl came from his right and Bucky veered off course to avoid it. Seconds later, he felt the air brush past him and then there was a sharp hard pressure on his human shoulder and chest. Teeth. Something big was biting his shoulder. Bucky howled in pain.

“Bucky!” Clint screamed.

“Run.” Bucky commanded as he coughed, warm blood dribbled down his chin. When Clint didn’t move, he yelled it once more wetly “RUN!”

He felt so cold, cold to his bones. The only thing that was warm was the blood that was clogging his throat making it hard to breathe. What must be a set of claws sunk into his side, splitting his ribs.

Bucky let out a gurgled cry. He tried to take one breath and realised he couldn’t. His eyes felt too big for his face. When he tried to breathe again, nothing happened. The last thing he remembered was the distant feel of another set of claws piercing his chest, where his heart was and then nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky woke up, choking on his own bile. He scrambled up in bed and coughed up the yellow liquid onto the sheet in front of him. He took deep gulping breaths and touched himself all over trying to feel for wounds that weren’t there. His chest was intact and scar free, just as was his good shoulder and his sides. Nothing.

_Clint_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! The last part of the chapter fought me something fierce. Enjoy and thanks for reading!

**Then**

 

There were shadows lurking in the peripherals. They’d move just as he’d try and look at them directly. They probably weren’t real. Clint turned his head faster to catch one on the edge of the field but it was quicker.

 “Shh,” His mom shushed behind him, “Now tell me what pie you want and I’ll bring home a whole one for your birthday tonight, baby.”

Barney mouth curled upwards into a small, rare smile as he let himself be pulled into a hug. “Apple. No. Blueberry.”

“How about half of each?” She asked as she carded her fingers lightly through his bangs.

“Yeah and a slice of cherry for you.”

“Half of each and a slice of cherry for me. That sounds like a perfect choice.” She paused, before distantly continuing, “10 whole years. When did those happen?”

“Just now, s’pose,” Barney shrugged.

“Must have been when I wasn’t looking. Clint, baby, why don’t you grab that bag over there and bring it over for your brother.” LC ran over and brought back a plain brown paper bag with some newspaper tissue sticking out the top. Barney snatched it and in half a second he pulled out a football so new it still had stickers on it. Barney turned it over and over in his hands and sent his mom another smile. Two in one day; Clint had forgotten how nice that morning had been.

“Thanks.”

“You should take your brother out today and play with it until I get home. You’ll need the practice for next month.” Barney shot her a confused look. “I was told by your gym teacher that the tallest boy in his class really should be on the team.”

“But the equipment.”

“Already handled but don’t tell your father okay. I’ve got to go, baby. On that table are some lunches for you to take out with you while you play. Take care of your brother. Happy Birthday and I love you both.” His mom gathered her purse and stood up, putting her finger to her lips to hush them again as she stepped quickly and lightly out of the house, opening and closing the door with such care.

“Barney!” LC exclaimed in a whispered yelp, pointing at the football. “Happy birthday for real now.” LC tried to hug Barney who just scowled and batted him away.

“Babysitting you, yay!” Barney scowled. “Get your shoes on and I’ll grab the grub.”

Clint stood up and stretched. Another black shape zipped past the window. It was too quick to get a read on what it could be. With 6 long strides Clint was out the door, on the small front porch. Yellow green fields stretched on for miles. The wind pushed the tall grass along in waves as Clint looked back and forth, tracking each movement. Nothing. Barney and LC brushed past him chasing each other to the grazing field for Donaldson’s two horses. In this summer heat, the field was always empty as Donaldson would graze on a field down by the river.

They would be there for hours, that much Clint remembered of Barney’s 10th and that field had a large tree that was perfect for napping under. Clint followed though his eyes lingered on the tall grass.

***

With a start, Clint woke up to his father’s mocking laughter.

“I’ve seen girls with better arms than that.” He was leaning against the border fence with a smile, his broad forearms resting against the old wood.

“I was just trying something new,” Barney said defensively. His dad ducked down, and manoeuvred himself through the fence.

“Pass it over. I’ll show you how to throw a proper ball.”

Barney approached cautiously and handed it over.

“See how I’m holding it, how my fingers go between each lace? There we go, just like that. Now back at the tree and you toss it this way.”

Clint stood slack-jawed and still half asleep as he watched his dad toss a football with Barney like they lived in the suburbs. Like they were one of those white-picket families. LC sported a dumbfounded look that probably mirrored his own.

“Lift your elbow up and keep it up as you throw. Good. Now harder.”

Clint threw his hands in the air.

“Fuck you cube. You just making shit up now?” Even as he said it though, Clint had that niggling feeling like this might actually have happened. Birthdays had always been good days, apart from his seventh.

“You ten? And throwing like this? That’s first string talent right there,” His dad said, smiling – smiling – at Barney.

“You think?”

“I know. Now where’s your ma?”

“Working. She’s bringing back pie for dinner.”

“Pie for dinner? What is this? Your birthday?” His dad joked - joked. Clint pushed himself up with the intention of leaving but he found himself lingering out of curiosity.

“Dad,” Barney groaned, icy defensiveness completely melted away.

“Let’s see how your running is. I’m going to throw it far.”

“This good?”

“Further – I’m old but I ain’t that old.”

His father threw the ball with ease, it sailed over Barney’s head, causing him to turn and sprint quickly, diving to catch it, the two of them laughing the whole time. A sense of unease slowly settled in is gut, weighing down his feet.  

“Can you teach me that?” Barney asked breathlessly as he ran back into range to throw it back, shot going wide enough his dad had to move to get it.

“Course I can. We almost won state two years in a row when I was QB. Now, you going to go far enough away to actually make this a challenge?”

His dad had a great arm and even greater aim despite years of little to no practice. The knowledge settled equally unpleasantly in his gut alongside his unease.  

 

**

 

Clint sat at the top of the stairs, jonesing for a cigarette so bad he could kill despite giving them up for good at 19. Below him, in the kitchen at the back of the house with the radio blaring, everyone was laughing and getting along. Clint couldn’t go any further than the top step, but at least from here, he didn’t have to see it. They were all eating pie and letting Harold regale them with stories from his high school football days.

He wanted to be at a table with his friends, Bucky on one side, Natasha on the other, eating take out, and getting into dumb contests with whoever he could sucker – usually Tony. Clint closed his eyes and let his head drop onto his knees. Homesick while at home.

Clint shoved two fingers in his ears, so the kitchen noise became muffled and the only clear sound was the thump-thumping of his heart. For a long few moments, Clint let himself drift in that white noise. Softly, a plinking sound began and steadily grew louder, eventually becoming loud enough to clearly be notes. It was the clinking opening music for his act with Jacques. For a second, Clint could swear he could even hear Carson introducing them. Clint shot his head up, opening his eyes, and actually grateful to see he was still in Iowa. The music continued in a disorientating manner– there was no clear source. It felt like the shadows, just out of reach. The more Clint tried to focus on it, the more it faded until Clint could only hear his own breathing. One breath. Two breath. And then noise erupted from the kitchen, laughter and terrible 80s power ballads.

Clint stood up and strode down the stairs straight into the kitchen. He could see Harold letting Barney win in an arm wrestling match. Clint none-too-gently, pushed Barney’s chair and Barney with it away from the table, grabbing his father’s arm and slamming it against the table hard enough the old table itself splintered a bit and jittered dangerously to the side.

Everyone else in the room had stilled completely except for Harold who was still laughing. He didn’t get to be fucking happy. Clint grabbed his head and slammed it against the table. Once. Twice. Harold was still laughing. Clint punched him in a way guaranteed to break any man’s nose. Nothing.

Clint grabbed the table, stacked with plates, a couple beer bottles, and a giant pitcher of Minute Maid pink lemonade and upended it. Everything fell to the floor with a satisfying crash. At least something here could be broken besides his fucking self. Clint grabbed the radio next and threw it on the ground, and while it cracked, it continued to work. Clint stomped on it until all the music faded. Even Harold had stopped laughing. In the new silence was just Clint’s ragged breathing.

“Let me out!” Clint bellowed to no one in particular. Nothing happened. Clint kicked the mangled remains of the radio hard enough into the wall to cause a dent and then marched out of the room, foot smarting, and back up the stairs to still find himself blocked. Clint’s shoulders sagged. With slow steps, he headed back down to the first floor. The noise was picking back up again, the laughter and the music. When Clint spared a look down the hallway, everything was back where it was supposed to be. Clint kept walking into the front room and collapsed onto the couch, pulling one of the throw pillows over his head.

His stomach gurgled loudly. He should get up. He should eat the goddamn pie. But what was the goddamn point anyway? No one was coming. The only way this nightmare ended was with him. He rolled over, putting his back to it all and tried and failed to fall asleep. Was this body even his body? A foot throbbed. Maybe it was his foot. He kicked it against the couch, relieved to feel the tendrils of pain shoot up his whole leg.

He looked down at his leg. It didn’t look like his leg. Clint closed his eyes and this time when he tried to sleep he succeeded.

**

He woke up to Bucky in a black suit and tie staring blankly out the window while Steve talked Bucky what to expect at the funeral. His funeral. Steve must have pulled some pretty big strings to get Clint a plot in Arlington. He had no idea he could even be buried there considering his stint in the military at lasted less than three months and was an undercover operation for SHIELD.

It wasn’t just a break then. They really were giving up.

For a few seconds, all Clint could feel was a hurt so deep he wasn’t certain he could even breathe. His chest felt cleaved in two; exposed like a raw nerve. And then the numbness settled over him, bone-deep. It made his limbs feel heavy and his whole body feel burdensome. Privately he was relieved when the darkness rushed back in. He didn’t want to see the way Bucky just accepted it all, dead silent in his grief.

As he sat there in the grass, he kept his eyes closed, and briefly wondered what it would be like to just remain in that void, falling forever. It would probably be better than this.

 

**

He was losing hours. Maybe even days. Things happened around him and sometimes things happened to him but it barely registered. He was coping. Or not coping. Psych and him had differing opinions on the matter. . He’d blink into awareness to see the beginnings of a fight between his parents and then float away only to blink back again some time later to Barney wrestling LC into a pair of mittens and a foot plus of snow outside the window. When had it snowed?

Clint wasn’t sure if the cold seeping in was in his mind or real.

 

**

The snow stayed for days. Maybe for days. His inner clock wasn’t working anymore and he hadn’t been to the tower in a while. He’d stopped wanting to go and then he had stopped going. The snow was actually cold to the touch and Clint found himself sitting in it, just enjoying a sensation. He’d sit until he stopped shivering and then he’d finally go inside. The fire that would burn through his fingers and feet as the feeling seeped back in was the closest he’d been to warmth in months. Wolverine had called them Screamin’ Murphies, which was probably a Canadian thing, but it described the pain well enough.

He couldn’t hide out in the fields anymore, not like before. His world was becoming even smaller.

**

 

He dreamed of being back at the Tower, sitting on the sofa with Bucky. For a brief moment, it almost felt real, especially when he had looked right at Clint. It was such a brief little dream that he wasn’t even certain it had even happened. It was getting harder to tell what was in his head and what wasn’t.

 

**

 

He also had nightmares at the Tower. During one, he’d been sitting out on one of his favourite perches and just admiring the cityscape when he’d looked over to see the creature. Not in the darkness but fully in the light, a mixture of shadows and long sharp teeth. It had lunged at him, sunk his teeth into him as they fell together into the void.  Except when opened his eyes in that field, he was fine, his shoulder not even tender from phantom pain.

 

**

The snow went away at some point. Clint only noticed because the shadows were back, teasing him by being just out of sight.

 

**

Clint had been drifting. He felt pain from his head but pushing through to consciousness was like trying to swim to the surface while stuck in an undertow. When he finally did break through it was to find himself being pulled by the short hair on his scalp down the stairs by his irate father. Clint couldn’t make out the words, hadn’t been able to the first time this happened twenty-five years ago. He struggled, twisting his body while his fingers scrabbled the hand in his hair. His tailbone hit sharply against one of the bottom steps and shot such an acute bolt of pain that it caused his whole body to tense up.

These had been his least favourite punishments. Now though, he’d been through worse and for longer. The idea wasn’t a comfort though because his heart still rabbited in his chest. Clint tried to get his feet from under him and almost succeeded until his left foot snagged on the runner in the front hall.

With his free hand, Harold opened the cellar door and then proceeded to keep dragging Clint down the stairs to the dirt floor below.

His father didn’t even say another word as he let go and then headed back to the door. Clint tried to get up to follow but he couldn’t physically push himself up. He was paralysed on the ground until the door closed, leaving the cellar in complete darkness. Clint pushed himself up on shaky arms. His father moved the bolt, and Clint could feel it in his chest as the lock slid into place. LC was crying miserably in the corner, begging to be let out, begging for a light to be turned on.

The darkness wasn’t scary. It wasn’t.

The cellar door shuddered against its hinges. There was no light to protect him down here. Clint scrambled up to the door, panic rising in his chest. Normally the dark was safe but not here. Not with that thing whose only weakness was the light. Clint tried the doorknob, pulling at it futilely.

Clint banged at the door, once, twice, and then just in one steady beat that sped up and up. He was going to be here for days he thought as he collapsed onto the top step. Clint knew how all these memories ended.

The door opened, a figure silhouetted against the light. Clint righted himself, almost embarrassed by how he let it all get to his head and stood up.

 

**Now**

 

Clint stumbled in the darkness, blinded by grief. He could still hear the wet sick crunch as the creature had sunk its claws into Bucky. Bucky who had been alive and here and warm. So warm. Clint spun around, trying to orientate himself, but he could hear noises all around him. A crunch to his left and then a snarl to his right. The thing was close.

Clint stopped running. He pulled himself upright and tilted his head up with his eyes closed. If it wanted him, it could have him. The creature came right up to him. It loomed behind him, its ice cold breath ghosting across the back of his neck. Clint waited.

Nothing.

When he opened his eyes it was light again and he was alone. The house was only a few yards away.

The grass waved, wet and shiny with blood.

 

******

 

Bucky marched straight into Stark’s lab, ignoring FRIDAY, and grabbed Stark by his shirt, lifting him off the ground.

“He’s not dead. He was never dead!” Bucky yelled as he shook Stark. An iron man suit grabbed him from behind and pull at his arms, trying to get him into a hold.

“I do not consent to whatever the hell this is Barnacles. Now let me the fuck down. FRIDAY!”

“Active measures in progress, sir. Please try and take the path of least resistance.”

Bucky fought against the suit’s hold for a few seconds before releasing his grip on Stark and holding his hands up.

“I’m fine,” Bucky growled, straining to keep his arm in place. “Call your dogs off.”

“Fine as in fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional? Because yes to all of those,” Tony bristled as he smoothed his shirt down and took a few steps away. Dr Foster was holding a taser and was approaching Bucky from the side.

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky repeated louder.

“You are most definitely not fine,” Tony snapped back.

“He’s alive and we abandoned him and you aren’t anywhere near close enough to help. I saw him and he needs us now. So fucking fix it.”

“You are making no sense. FRIDAY, is Brucie-kins around?”

“I have already informed him that his presence is required.”

“I saw Clint. I talked to him. I got to fucking touch him. I don’t know what the hell that thing did but it didn’t kill him or eat him or whatever bullshit you spewed my way months ago.”

“Good Morning, Sergeant Barnes, is it? I’m Dr Simmons. Can you tell me where you saw him?” The SHIELD tech asked as she walked up to Bucky. “Is it okay if I just give you a quick once over. You appear to have had quite a shock.” She smiled gently as she pulled out a small pen light and flashed them over his eyes.

Reluctantly, Bucky explained.

“I’ve been having…dreams but they are not just dreams. They are something else. I keep dreaming of the same place. I am pretty sure now that it is a recreation of Agent Barton’s childhood home. I finally found him in it last night. He was in a bad way. He told me that he’d been there since the event with the cube and that he is fairly sure it sent him there. There is something else there too. It attacked me, probably would have killed me if I had been there for real and that is what woke me up. He’s alone there though and he can’t wake up if it hurts him.”

Simmons looked at him with sympathy and Bucky was surprised to look down and see her hand taking his pulse.

“I am not dismissing you in anyway but what makes you so certain that this was more than just a nightmare?”

Before Bucky could answer the lab doors banged open as Steve rushed in followed by Bruce.

“The situation is in hand literally and figuratively,” Simmons said, implying heavily that they should stop and both of them listened.

“A portal is a possibility and a theory I had been considering,” Jane said as she put the taser back into her purse.

“It’s still a dream though,” Tony added ignoring Bucky’s answering growl.

“Wait did you have another one, Bucky?” Steve asked concernedly.

“Clint said he thinks the cube has a psychic element.”

“Wait Clint said?” Steve replied first.

“I had another dream but he was there this time. Stevie, he’s not dead and he needs our help.” Steve looked uncertain for a second before he nodded his head once, firmly.

“Then we are going to help.”

“A psychic element might explain a bleed through,” Simmons agreed. “SHIELD has had the hardest time dealing with and containing technologies with psychic components. They are very unpredictable.”

“I don’t know if I ever would have called it psychic but some Asgard technology is intuitive and adaptive in the way that we can only dream about with our current experiments in AI and yes Tony, I’m including FRIDAY in that group.”

“That’s blasphemous.”

“It’s not Asgard tech though is it?” Janet spoke up.

“Not that I recognise at least. Thor would probably be the most helpful for this.”

At Thor’s name, Bucky growled again.

“We can’t wait around for him. Even if that thing that got me didn’t get him, I don’t know how long he can hold out.”

“Maybe Professor Xavier could help us.” Simmons suggested

“Who?” Jane asked.

“A very powerful mutant and possibly one of the strongest telepaths. He could perhaps at least tell us if there is a mind to read here. Maybe even communicate with it.”

“We already had Dr Strange look at it.” Tony explained distractedly as he considered the proposal.

“He looked at magic though, not the fact that this is living. We already knew it used Agent Barton as a power source, we may have just assumed the wrong method,” Simmons explained, mind clearing making connections faster than most people could follow.

“There are different tests I would like to run,” Bruce added as he walked over to where Dr Simmons was so they could confer quietly.

The Ironman suit finally let go of him fully and Bucky turned to look at the cube that was responsible for so many months of misery. He couldn’t understand on the questions and ideas that were now being bandied about lightning-fast between the five scientists.

Bucky blinked, the grief and fear welling up. Steve moved in front of him, taking up his whole vision.

“Bucky, you helped. This is going to work.”

“You can’t know that.”

“We won’t stop now that we know we can’t. Why don’t you come with me? You can get showered and changed for the day and then we’ll come right back.”

Bucky looked down at himself and the vomit stained shirt and sweats he was still in.

“Professor Xavier?” He asked only to have FRIDAY answer.

“I have already sent him a message detailing the situation and he has agreed to help.”

Bucky nodded and let Steve pull him out of the lab.

“I abandoned him, Steve.”

“No, you didn’t. You got this whole research team set up before you even knew.”

“It wasn’t enough. You weren’t there Steve; you didn’t see. None of us did enough.” Bucky moved ahead of Steve and went into the elevator. Steve followed him in but Bucky ignored him.

Bucky couldn’t shake the dread that was pooling in his chest. He ran through all the possibilities, the probabilities. Clint was still alive and there was a more than decent chance they were never getting him back anyway.

As if sensing his thoughts, Steve reached out to grab the back of Bucky’s neck and shake it a little bit, like the way he had done to Steve all those decades ago. Bucky shrug the hand off and Steve’s worried frown only deepened. Now he felt guilty. Bucky crossed his arms across his chest and bumped his shoulder against Steve’s.

“I just want him home,” Bucky conceded.

“We’ll get him back.”

“We might not.”

“We will,” Steve said firmly, “It’s the only acceptable option.”

“I need a distraction. Spar with me?”

“Dirty rules?”

“Who do you think you are talking to? Of course dirty rules.” Bucky shoved his shoulder into Steve with more force than necessary. Steve bounced lightly against the elevator wall.

“FRIDAY to the training gym please?” Steve asked as he tried to pull Bucky into a headlock.

 

**

 

Bucky shuffled out of the elevator, bone tired and ready for bed. Tomorrow they might make some real progress with Professor Xavier.

A hand grabbed his bicep and squeezed hard. Bucky moved without thought, moving into a fighting stance and in one quick moved wrenched his captive arm free while his other hand unsheathed the weapon he kept tuck into the back of his waistband and brought it right up to the face of his assailant.

Natalia.

Bucky dropped the stance and lowered his knife but kept it in his hand at his side.

“Nat.”

“Is it true? Did you really see him?” Natalia was trying hard to keep the emotions off her face.

“We talked. He thought I was there to take him home.” Bucky confessed quietly.

Natalia nodded once. She didn’t reply immediately but her face grew dark, brows furrowed and mouth small and downturned.

“He was back at that farm?”

Bucky sighed and nodded.

“Was his family there?”

The image of Clint’s father dragging his mother from the car came into his mind unbidden.

“Yes.”

Nat let out a long string of Russian curses before turning away and heading to the elevator Bucky had just come from.

“Where are you going?”

“To put things right,” Nat said determinedly.

 

**

 

Professor X was not the man Bucky had been expecting, especially considering how dangerous his file made him out to be. He had a serious but warm and compassionate demeanour that lessened the dread knot that seemed to live in his stomach each day since speaking with Clint. Despite this, he still found himself defensively interrupting Stark’s rambling introduction on how best to proceed.

“I saw him and even though it was a dream, it wasn’t a dream. It was real. He was real.”

“I do not think anyone here doubts that as fact,” Professor Xavier reassured, “Your companion briefly explained some of the troubling incidents that you’ve reported. They would not be unusual at my Academy but here is another matter entirely. Now, why don’t you show me down to the laboratory Mr Stark?”

“Uh, yes, of course. Please follow me,” Tony gestured to the door, “We will need to go back to the elevators.”

The laboratory was quite packed once they all had entered between the Avengers, the science team, and the X-men. Bucky hung far enough back to be out of the way but close enough to hear and see everything. Steve took a place next to him. Nat hadn’t been back to the tower since she had left yesterday after their conversation.

The professor moved closer to the cube deep in concentration.

“There has been no activity emanating from the cube itself correct?”

“No, though I did go back through our readings. We have a baseline established here as well as one during incidents that we got from the data we collected at the facility were we found the cube. There have been incredibly minor fluctuations. At the time, they were so minute, that we thought it was just the baseline but they occurred during every one of the incidents that Barnes reported. There were other minor fluctuations outside of that and the working theory that those signify when Barton had an episode though we won’t be able to corroborate that without him,” Bruce explained.

“When did you do this?” Stark asked

“Yesterday. FRIDAY helped.”

“Oh, umm, I would not move any closer than that, sir, Professor, uh sir,” Simmons stuttered out inelegantly.

“I won’t touch it, I promise.” Professor Xavier promised with a small smile. “I am not sure what reaction I may invoke, if any, so it might be best to limit the number of people present.”

Steve moved, beckoning Bucky to follow but Bucky crossed his arms and shook his head.

“I need to be here. Just in case.”

Steve gave Bucky a measured look before nodding and heading for the observation room. The X-men were looking at the professor and it seemed like they were having a silent argument. They stood staring at each other for a long minute before the three of them nodded and headed towards the room with Steve, Bruce, and Sam. Stark, Jane, Janet, and Simmons all stayed, keeping to various instruments.

Professor Xavier brought a hand up to his temple and closed his eyes. Silence settled like a thick blanket over the room. Bucky barely dared to so much as breathe as they waited. From his vantage point, Bucky could see the professor’s other hand curl around the chair arm, knuckles eventually whitening.

His next breath was visible, hanging in the air which had cooled rapidly. The scientists began moving almost in unison as the air grew colder and colder. The cube pulsed once. Then twice.

Professor Xavier was shaking with effort.

The cube pulsed a third time so bright that Bucky had to shield his eyes and turn away. The fourth time wasn’t so much a pulse as it stayed illuminated for ten long seconds before going dark as Professor X gave a cry and slumped forward in his chair. The room erupted into chaos. Janet lunged forward and hit a button on the far wall that Bucky had never even noticed and all of a sudden the mechanism that held the cubed dropped down into the floor.

Stark, Jane and Simmons were pressing things and talking over each other too fast for Bucky to keep up with. Bucky moved, grabbed the chair and pulled it to the door of the observation room only to find it locked.

“Stark,” Bucky barked. His head shot up, took a half-second to process the situation before ordering FRIDAY to open the door to remove the professor before re-engaging containment measures.

Once the door was open, the other X-men pulled the chair away from Bucky’s grip and the door closed behind him before locking securely. Professor Xavier’s eyes fluttered beneath his lashes rapidly.

Bucky clenched his fists and resisted the urge to shake the man alert and demand answers. He tuned out all the noise, all the yelling, all the alarms and stared intently at the man, willing him to wake up. With a loud gasp, Professor Xavier arched forward, body rigid, and then he began to shake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry guys! I got a new job that took me from 20 hours a week to almost 70. I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

It had happened so suddenly. Clint had been slouched on a kitchen chair, picking at breakfast that tasted like nothing, barely following the conversation when the whole house shuttered and plunged into darkness.

A second later, the light blinked into existence, exposing an empty kitchen devoid of his family. Clint stood up, eyes assessing the situation. The radio turned itself on and through the crackle of white noise, Clint could hear an alarm and panicked shouting. It sounded like Stark.

The house blinked back into darkness and an unnatural cold crept along Clint’s spine. It seeped into his bones and with each breath his lungs burned. Clint moved blindly towards the radio and clipped his foot on the table leg. With a bit of fumbling, Clint was able to get his hands on the appliance and put it up to his ear. It was definitely Stark and a few female voices he couldn’t easily recognise though they sounded familiar.

Something was happening topside with the cube. The white noise picked up, slowly drowning out the rest of the noise, until all he could hear was an alarm. Then, abruptly, the radio died, and light flooded back into the kitchen.

The basement door banged open. Clint barely had time to turn his head to look at it when he was struck by an invisible wall. It pushed him violently, out of the kitchen. Clint stumbled into the door jamb and threw out one arm to catch himself. For a few seconds he was able to resist, but the force was too strong and persistent. His fingers gave out, one quickly after the other. Another great push and this one from a different direction, forced him off his feet and hurtling head first into the basement. It was only years of training that let Clint guide the fall in a way that didn’t end with a broken neck. He hit a step halfway down hard enough on his shoulder to wind himself. His tailbone jarred against a lower step but he was just able to avoid hitting is head on the final step as he landed in a graceless heap. The door slammed shut, leaving Clint in the pitch-black basement with only a sliver of light coming in from under the door. For a little while, it was quiet enough that Clint could only hear the sound of his ragged breathing. Then the house started to shake lightly at first and then hard enough for the wood to creak dangerously above him. Clint pulled himself up into a sitting position. The radio lay just a few inches away, flickering on and off.

It had somehow survived the tumble but no matter what Clint did, all it now played was a white noise. Gingerly, Clint picked himself up and pulled himself back up the stairs. He groped around the door searching for the knob but it was gone. The key hole was gone too. Clint took a few seconds, checking his range of motion on the jarred shoulder before deeming it clinically fine enough for his next shitty plan. There wasn’t a lot of space on the top step, not enough to get any good momentum but it was all he had to work with. Clint backed up as much as he could and then threw himself at the door, barging it with his shoulder. It didn’t even give a quarter inch like most wooden doors. This was unnaturally sealed.

Clint huffed out a humourless laugh before turning around, and sliding down the door until he was slumped on the top step.

Bucky must have been okay. He must have told them about him. Whatever they had done hadn’t gotten him out, but it must have done something. Clint held onto that thought and ignored the intrusive anxiety that seemed to appear recently whenever he spent any time in the dark.

He sat there for a long time praying, for the fifth time in his entire life, that this would be it, that this would be his last memories of this place.

 

**

 

It was complete chaos and then it was utterly quiet. Bruce and the X-men had carted Xavier away once the fit had ended. Sometime just after that, the alarm had been shut off and Steve had barreled back into the lab to demand explanations. Bucky stood, feeling adrift as everyone moved around him with purpose. It left Sam staring at Bucky with a troubled, unsure expression.

He opened his mouth to say something. Bucky cut him off with a hand wave and then turned around and left the lab, heading in the direction of medical. Stark wouldn’t have answers but the Professor might. If he woke up.

In medical, the Professor was hooked up to a series of machines, looking pale. His two colleagues were handling the situation in different ways. The striking woman with white hair stood alert and strong all the while, gently holding the Professor’s hand. Her companion with the weird headgear just looked pissed even though Bucky couldn’t see his eyes.

Neither Steve nor Stark had emerged from the lab.

As Banner spoke to the X-men, Bucky could read his lips enough to figure out that there was nothing seemingly wrong, despite the seizure, and that it was just a matter of time. The news did not sit well with either of them. Glasses pulled out a phone to make a call, he appeared to be asking for someone named Gene.

Thirty minutes later, Steve appeared with Stark, both sporting serious expressions.

“How’s the Professor?” Stark asked as they approached the window Bucky was stationed at.

“The Doc seems to think he’s fine and it’s just a matter of time. Did the containment work?”

“I think so, but the cube went quiet again ten minutes ago without exploding so my genius wasn’t actually tested.” For a short beat no one spoke. “This morning didn’t really go to plan.”

“Understatement of the century,” Steve replied with a furrowed brow.

“And as a centenarian you would know?” Stark smirked.

“Do you have any idea what happened?” Bucky interrupted.

“Besides the Prof proving your boyfriend’s theory correct? Not really. That thing hasn’t reacted to a thing we’ve thrown at it but five minutes being thought at and boom, responses off the charts. Now we know at least. We can poke it with that stick all day, maybe get it even more responsive.”

“Stark,” Steve warned

“What?”

“Hawkeye is still in there.”

“I know that Rogers. I am perfectly aware of exactly what stakes we are dealing with here. This is the first time in months we have made even an ounce of progress. Forgive my tone, sure, but I will not be sorry about the fact that today we are miles closer than yesterday.”

“Miles closer?” Bucky finally spoke up, “We almost caused a second incident and the one man who can help us is in a coma.”

“We’ve been running into a brick wall over and over again and finally, today, we actually made a dent. If Bruce says he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. He’ll have even more answers for us. So yes, progress to be excited about. And furthermore -”

“Your presence has been requested by Dr Foster,” FRIDAY interrupted.

“I’ll be down immediately. You’ll tell me when Lex Luther is up right?”

“I will let you know of any change in condition, sir.”

“Thank you,” Tony replied, as he headed back towards the elevators. Halfway down the hall he turned back to say, “We’re closer Terminator, I promise,” before ducking out of sight.

Steve took a step closer to Bucky and knocked his shoulders against Bucky’s with that Captain look he’d been perfecting since ’44 to inspire hope and stupidity within the Howling Commandos. Bucky was immune.

“You need to eat. FRIDAY will tell us the second there is a change.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Bucky…”

“No,” Bucky said and after a beat added, “Maybe for dinner if nothing has changed.”

“Deal.”

 

**

 

He was bored. Undeniably bored. And his ass was both numb and yet somehow sore from the hard wooden steps. No matter how he shifted, he couldn’t make it better. The cold had receded at least and the house had stopped shuddering which also counted as a win. Though what had followed was a dreadful silence that set Clint’s teeth on edge. He dozed and despite the discomfort, it was the best sleep he’d had in months. He woke up naturally and wonderfully slowly.

Sometime during his third nap, the radio turned back on. It woke him up enough to register the white noise but he was so tired, he couldn’t bring himself to do more besides shift onto his other side and fall back into sleep.

The radio was still crackling when he woke up properly. When he stretched his arm, his bicep brushed the cold knob. It jolted him into action. He immediately stood and tried the door, finding no resistance as it creaked open.

An eerie blue light of the television blinked across the stairs from the front room and when he turned to look out the back door, he saw that outside was pitch black. There wasn’t a single star. His mother walked across the kitchen startling him, humming to herself as she made what looked like potato chip chicken. His stomach dipped; she only made that on special occasions. Clint headed towards the kitchen on stiff legs and started at the sight of a young man sat at the kitchen table with a contemplative look. He was familiar but Clint could not place him.

When Clint edged into the room, he looked up at Clint and stared at him with a studying glance. It made Clint stop and stand completely still. The feeling of being judged sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.

“Umm, hi,” Clint said slowly.

“Mr Barton, it’s good to see you.” The man greeted warmly with one of those moneyed English accents.

“Uhh,” Clint blinked.

“Do forgive my manners. Professor Xavier. I believe you are familiar with me though not at this age and certainly not with this much hair.”

Clint tried to keep the surprise off his face and tilted his head to give the man a proper once over. He had never met the man but he had been on SHIELD’s radar for decades and Clint had seen photos from the file. This young man certainly could be the man from the photos. He had the same eyes.

“Sorry, yes. Professor,” Clint laughed self-deprecatingly and rubbed a hand through his hair, “I wasn’t really expecting company.”

“No, I imagine company has been sparing.”

Clint replied with a smile that was more of a grimace as Xavier looked towards his mother thoughtfully. It didn’t feel right having someone else in here, seeing this, seeing her. Clint walked into the kitchen fully and placed himself between his mother and Xavier’s knowing look.

“I don’t think I will be leaving a kind Yelp review. Zero out of five stars: the food tastes of nothing, there is never any hot water, and the other patrons are incapable of making conversation and tend towards the homicidal. ”

“This is a rather peculiar situation you’ve found yourself in, isn’t it?”

“No, just another Friday with the Avengers,” Clint joked with a humourless laugh.

“I am glad I found you though. I wanted to talk to you before I left,” Xavier continued.

Clint tried not to let the disappointment show but he knew he failed by the way that Xavier gave him a small sad smile.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite a predicament, Mr Barton. This creature you are entangled with is incredibly strong and entirely dependent upon you.”

“I’m so glad my childhood trauma is finally benefitting someone,” Clint bit out sarcastically. He sent Xavier a chagrined look. He was frustrated at the situation, not the messenger.

“I by myself am not strong enough but I do know others who can help me. That’s what I wanted to tell you. We need some more time and it may take us a couple of attempts but we are going to work tirelessly to see you free from this.”

Clint ducked his head and bit his tongue hard to stop the emotions swelling up.

“Thanks, prof. Tell them I’m okay, yeah. I’ve lived this once already and if it didn’t kill me first time round, it really won’t get me the second.”

“It needs strong emotional reactions. If you don’t let yourself feel the pain, the fear, the anger, then it may try to make it worse.”

Clint felt the phantom traces of his mother’s hands on him as she had tried to drown him.

“That’s not really my thing. In fact, that’s kind of the opposite of my thing.”

“Consider this just a warning then; avoidance may make it harder for you than is necessary.”

Clint laughed with a little headshake.

“Prof, I was born making life hard on myself. It’s one of my many character defects.”

“I have to get back. Mind my words and hopefully next time I see you, we will be speaking in person.”

Xavier stood up and gave Clint small nod and wave before heading for the door.

“I wouldn’t go out there. There’s something out there that doesn’t appreciate intruders.”

Xavier turned back to look at Clint with small smirk.

“I’m counting on it.”

And with that, he opened the back door and stepped into the inky black, immediately disappearing.

 

**

 

It took five hours but finally, Xavier woke with a start, clutching at his chest as the monitors beeped loudly. Steve had been by a couple of times as he flitted between the lab and medical with updates that weren’t really updates from Stark seeing as they amounted to ‘cube still quiet as all hell’.

After Xavier had reassured his companions and Banner he was fine, he looked up and found Bucky immediately. With a small wave, be beckoned Bucky in to talk.

“I want my objection noted. We should return home until you are better,” Glasses insisted with a deep scowl.

“Objection noted. Come in Mr Barnes, I believe you have some pressing questions. Sit, you’ve been standing for hours.”

Bucky stepped forward, uncomfortable with the familiarity, but took the seat as indicated.

“It can wait until you are better,” Bucky offered even though it was the last thing he wanted.

“I’m fine. Just an unpleasant way to wake up is all as you know. I saw your young man.”

“Was he okay?”

“He was handling the situation better than most.”

“Can you help?”

“I believe I can but it will be hard and I don’t believe anyone is going to like my plan. That artefact is a living creature and it feeds off of strong emotions. I believe either positive or negative based on the time and place it briefly reconfigured itself to be for my benefit.”

“Reconfigured itself?”

“It creates a miniature world filled with projections in order to reenact memories, which for certain creatures of high being likely better facilitates emotional connections. For Mr Barton it is his childhood home and for me it was the beginning days of the X-men,” Xavier said with a sad smile.

The white-haired woman came up and grabbed Xavier’s hand which he easily accepted, patting their conjoined hands with his free one.

“Did you speak with it?”

“I wouldn’t call it speech, but we came to an understanding. It requires an inhabitant to live, creating a symbiosis. What I gathered from it though was that humans are not ideal symbiotes. It used to live on a planet with an alien species capable of bonding with it on an empathic level and it had a purpose. Now it is simply trying to survive on a less than ideal food source.”

“How does that translate to getting Clint out?”

“We convince it that I will take his place. As a mutant with my abilities, I am a far more suitable alternative and I believe it was trying to show me how nice it could be for me if I were to join it. It must relinquish Mr Barton in order to accept me. Right before the switch, we re-engage the containment protocol developed by your Mister Stark and pray that that is enough.”

“And if it isn’t?” Glasses piped up.

“Well my experience will undoubtedly be more enjoyable than Mr Barton’s. There was heartbreak in those early days,” Xavier explained alluding to something that caused the other two X-men to share a tense look, “but the good days far outweighed the bad.”

“You are right, I hate this plan,” Glasses announced.

“Well, you’ve already called Jean and she will be here to help and make sure that I have the strength to hold on until the containment is fully activated.”

“You are sure that it will want you instead?” Bucky asked, hope burrowing in his chest.

“As sure as I can be. I will need some rest first and a strong cup of tea if you wouldn’t mind Storm?”

Storm left with a nod, gesturing with Glasses to follow, which he did albeit reluctantly.

Bucky sat there, unsure.

“I know you have concerns.”

Bucky flinched. He didn’t like people in his head.

“Please, I will take no insult.”

“It’s not you who I’m worrying about offending,” Bucky dismissed. He stood up and paced back and forth in front of the bed twice before finally elaborating, “I like any plan that ends with Clint home. I’m selfish like that and I won’t apologise for it. But Clint, he’s a different story. The last thing he would want was to put someone else in that situation, even if it meant saving is own hide.”

“Come here.”

Bucky inched forward and stopped. Xavier waved him over again, eyebrow raised in a small challenge. He kept beckoning Bucky forward until he was within arms’ reach. Then he reached over and lightly rested three fingers on Bucky’s forearm.

Immediately he was transported to a wood panelled room likely in the 70s considering the décor and fashion choices. Next to him a very handsome man was laughing silently but hard enough that his whole body was shaking. Bucky could feel a warm leg pressed against his own, and an excitement that thrummed through his body. Bucky was intimate with this feeling, he’d suffered it for months every time Clint had made accidental contact with him.

Bucky blinked back into medical where Xavier sat still lost in the memory for a few seconds longer. Bucky waited, giving the man a moment. When Xavier finally turned and looked at Bucky, he was once again composed.

“That was where I was sent and I honestly lingered longer than I should have on my quest to find your man. As you can see, even if my plan fails, I wouldn’t be stranded in a place I hated and it certainly wouldn’t be forever. I have a feeling that between my team and yours, we would find a solution but at least this way there is a better chance that everyone comes out of it alive.”

 

**

 

“This is the best plan we could come up with? Give it another snack?” Tony asked less than impressed.

“That’s only if the plan goes wrong. Otherwise it’s a classic bait and switch,” Steve pointed out.

“The professor has provided us with more useful information in the past three hours than we’ve had in three months. I don’t even play chess and I know that there is almost never a good reason to sacrifice your Queen.”

“So are you saying your containment measures aren’t up to snuff? Because that wasn’t what you were saying earlier today.”

“They probably are because, genius, but they are untested and this is really the worst person to use as a guinea pig.”

“Stark, if your measures don’t work, nothing on this planet will. I have faith.”

Tony paused and looked over at first the Professor who shot Tony an encouraging smile and then at Bucky who stood there looking as indifferent as he could manage next to bed. Tony turned away from them and scratched the hair on his chin. He then sighed and turned back around.

“You saw him, right? Spoke to him? And not just like some holosuite prank?” Tony asked plaintively.

“We had a short but illuminating conversation in his mother’s kitchen as she made dinner. I would not have suggested this course of action if I did not believe in the veritable existence of Mr Barton.”

“And how did he seem?”

“In need of a good night’s rest and some human company.”

Tony raked a hand through his hair and looked up at the ceiling as he took in some deep breaths.

“The measures should work but they are, and I cannot stress this enough, untested. Do you consent to this with the full knowledge that everything we are about to do is completely experimental and there is therefore no guarantee of your safety?”

“With a sound mind.”

“Fine.”

“You’ll need to route the activation for the emergency protocols to a remote location,” Steve interjected.

“Already done in the initial design, Captain Obvious,” Tony snarked before adding to himself, “This is a terrible plan and I can’t believe you talked me into this. Hawkguy would hate this plan.”

“Well it’s a good thing he isn’t here to vote is it?” Bucky finally added.

“When will you be ready professor?”

“Tomorrow morning should be more than enough time.”

“Tomorrow morning it is then. If you need me, I will be in the lab preparing for tomorrow and adding as many new failsafes as an 18 hour window will allow.”

 

**

 

The kitchen was quiet after Xavier left. It was good news. It was. There was at least a potential channel for communication that wasn’t as erratic as lucking upon Bucky or rather Bucky lucking upon him while dream-walking. No matter how much he tried to look the silver lining, the feeling of violation was inescapable. He didn’t want anyone seeing this. He didn’t want anyone seeing him in this. Bucky had been bad enough with the way his eyes had lingered on his parents as they had walked away from the house. It had taken the last member of his family dying and an entire bottle of vodka for him to open up to Nat about this place.

They would probably all know.

Clint sat down in the seat the prof had been occupying and tried very hard not to think about all the shit he’d have to deal with on the other side. He’d just think about pizza and how he would order from every single place on his top ten list the week he was back. Pizza for every meal. Pizza and no feelings, like exactly how it was supposed to be until he died.

His mom was placing all the coated chicken strips on a baking sheet and putting them in the oven. Then she turned around and opened a drawer, pulling out the one happy birthday banner they had owned and used for every single birthday.

No. He’d rather take his chances out there with the monster.

“Please don’t,” Clint begged no one in particular.

With quick efficiency, his mother ripped off two pieces of tape and hung the banner across the door. Only his father had to duck to avoid the sign and he usually did it with an annoyed grumble.

“We could not and say we did. I’ll even feel feelings for you, no memory parade necessary.”

The front door banged open and Barney and LC tumbled in covered in muddy snow shoving at each other.

Clint slumped forward in his seat and rested his head in his arms on the table. Maybe this was like drowning. All he had to do was stop resisting, play dead, and stop the emotions boiling up in his chest

With deep breaths, Clint started to separate his feelings from the facts about what was going to occur, distance himself until it was just another day at the office. A small voice reminded him this was the complete opposite of what Professor X had suggested but he wasn’t here and not everyone could handle that level of emotional maturity. Clint certainly couldn’t.

“Clinton Francis Barton. You are seven today which means you are old enough to not track that muck all over the hallway I just cleaned,” His mother scolded as she headed out of the kitchen.

Clint focused on his own breathing, ignoring the conversation around him. It didn’t take long to drop his heart rate and let that numbness he used as a shield for years take over. Clint Barton’s patented coping mechanisms 1, Cube 0.

Not long afterward, his mother came back in with LC and the two of them started to decorate the cake his mom had made earlier from a box. In his head though, they became actors and this whole scene simply a tableau. It became easier and easier to distance himself until it was just a woman and a boy with no names acting out a movie he’d already seen.

He didn’t even sit back up in his chair when the father stumbled in and looked in on the scene with a frown. He stayed where he was, head on his arms while the scene played out in front of him at a 90 degree angle.

The father grabbed the boy’s face, made remarks about how he didn’t resemble his father, made remarks to the mother on how lucky she was that the boy took after her and not the other man that had fathered the boy. The mother yelled back, asking who this other mystery sperm donor was and when she possibly had the time to find him. The father started talking about his wife’s boss again. Again again again. This was an old and boring argument.

The boy tried to sneak pass the couple only to be picked up and shaken like a rag doll. The brother appeared yelling. The mother grabbed the father’s arm and he dropped the boy and then turned on her. He began to hit her as the two boys ran for the door, back out into the cold and snow. They would huddle in that dark until the cold seeped so far into their bones that when they got back into the house they wouldn’t be able to warm back up until the next day.

The man beat his wife until her face was so swollen, and her body so unresponsive, he thought her dead. Sometime later, he’d sober up enough to panic and rush her to the hospital. It wasn’t a very good movie at all.

Clint came back to himself as he was mechanically eating cake that was left out, hours later. He felt nauseous at the memory, at his reactions. He hadn’t felt that detached from himself since well, the world turned blue. The cake was not sitting well and he rushed quickly over to the sink, knocking a chair over and banging his shin hard in the process. He threw up and then kept throwing up until only long strings of bile came out of his mouth. With shaky hands he washed his face and rinsed his mouth.

He made his way back to the kitchen table and sat down delicately.

His mother breezed back into the kitchen, face untouched and beautiful. She hummed to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out a packet of chicken breasts and sour cream. She turned around and opened a cupboard and from the back pulled out a bag of potato chips.

 

**

 

“Jean Gray,” _a striking, redheaded, woman introduced herself as she held out her hand._

_“Steve Rogers,” Steve replied and took her hand to shake it. “Thank you for your help.”_

_“Well, let’s see just how much help I actually will be before we go thanking me. Can you point me to the Professor please?”_

_“Certainly, if you’ll come with me.”_

_Bucky watched as the two headed for the elevators and decided after a split second to follow them. He was too antsy to do anything but keep informed of all developments. Stark had kicked him out of the lab twice already when his unhelpful updates had spurned Bucky down there, to see what they were doing with his own eyes._

_“This is Bucky,” Steve introduced with a small nod._

_“Pleasure,” Jean said with a small smile. “Is the Professor alright? I can never really trust Scott’s updates.”_

_Oh, so Glasses was called Scott, not the name he would have guessed._

_“He is doing fine. He’s had the all clear from Dr Banner.”_

_When they arrived in medical, Xavier politely dismissed everyone from the room to have a private conversation with Jean. Glasses was less than impressed and for once, Bucky agreed with him. Steve tried to make conversation and succeeded only in talking at Bucky. He would have struggled to read their lips from this distance but seeing has they were having a conversation without words, it was impossible to tell what was happening. Jean looked concerned and shook her head a lot before finally nodding once seriously and turning back to the door._

_“We should all get some sleep. We are going to need it for tomorrow,” Jean announced to the group before letting herself be pulled aside by Glasses._

_“Bucky,” Steve said as he waved a hand in front of Bucky’s face._

_“What?” Bucky bit out._

_“Come on. We should get some food.”_

_“I don’t want food.”_

_“Nervous about tomorrow?” Bucky didn’t reply. “If it doesn’t work then we just have to come up with another way. Professor Xavier seems to know what he is doing and he said that Clint was doing okay despite the cube’s reaction. It’ll be fine.”_

_Bucky shrugged one shoulder._

_“They seem trustworthy,” Steve continued._

_“There is obviously something at play that none of them want to tell us about.”_

_“Well he’s risking a lot and he’s an important man to them and the mutant cause.”_

_Bucky finally uncrossed his arms and sighed._

_“That is probably it.”_

_“Good, now food or are we going to play sentinel for a little bit longer.”_

_“Food,” Bucky said as he reluctantly peeled himself away from the wall and let Steve lead him to the elevators._

 

_**_

 

_“Uncle,” Clint yelled over the wet thud of his father’s fists against his mother’s face. “Uncle,” he muttered a second time as he pressed his palms against his ears hard enough for his arms to shake with effort and clenched his eyes shut tied. Any day now guys. Any minute. Any goddamn fucking second._

 

_**_

 

_Bucky couldn’t sleep that night. He’d drift but his mind never quieted enough for sleep to come. Helpless frustration kept him tossing and turning._

_He found Stark in the kitchen at five in the morning staring blearily at the coffee maker._

_Stark didn’t speak as he handed a mug of strong black coffee over to Bucky. They stood there in silence drinking. On Stark’s third mug he finally looked properly alert. He nodded at Bucky, topped up for a fourth mug and then headed back out the door._

_Natalia came in around six, took one look at Bucky, rolled her eyes and started making a complicated breakfast._

_“You look terrible,” she said as she whisked something in a bowl._

_“Thanks.”_

_“Go have a shower. You’ll want to look good when Clint gets back.”_

_“Nat,” Bucky warned. She simply raised one eyebrow at him and then picked up an egg and deftly cracked it open one-handed._

_“Where have you been?” Bucky asked instead of following her not so subtle orders._

_“Making things right.”_

_“I am pretty sure same day evictions are illegal in New York.”_

_“Who said anything about evictions? Now go.” Nat ushered him away with a hand wave and a hard stare that meant business._

_Time dragged. Each minute felt like an hour and Bucky found himself with a shorter and shorter fuse as the seconds dragged on. He’d almost broken his dresser trying to find the Henley that Clint had deemed the softest shirt in the world. He’d gone to the lab after that. Sam had taken one look at him and immediately turned around and left. Steve had almost done the exact same thing except Sarah Rogers had raised him right._

“Professor Xavier said he would be down in the next half hour,” Steve managed conversationally.

Bucky shrugged.

“You look like you had a good night.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes and gave Steve a withering look.

“Okay, so it’s one of these days. Do you want to be alone?”

“Yes,” Bucky replied and then after a beat, “No. Probably. Maybe not but only if we don’t talk.”

“Sure thing Bucky,” Steve side with a small, private, smile.

 

**

 

Around the forth replay, it finally seemed to have gotten what it had wanted and instead of restarting, his parents left into the black void to go to the hospital and LC and Barney had snuck back in. Clint sat at the kitchen table unsure what to do with himself. He contemplated getting up but that seemed like one thing too much to do. He could hear Nat’s lecture about self-care, though. Stiffly, Clint pushed himself to his feet. He ate one piece of chicken, forced himself up each step to have a quick shower and then headed down to the couch to get a little bit of sleep. Throughout all of it, Clint felt like he was in a fog. He’d stop halfway up the stairs, unsure where he was and what he was doing. It was a long process to finally get himself back to the sofa but by then, he was finally starting to feel like himself again. Which was actually worse.

Cube: 1 (probably more if he was being honest) and Clint’s patented coping mechanisms: 0.

 

**

 

“We are about to perform a dangerous and ill-advised operation to extract our favourite Barton from a hostile alien artefact. My lab, my rules. That means no talking from the audience unless it is absolutely necessary. Also, the audience will remain on the other side of the everything-proof glass. No exceptions. The second Barton is sighted by F.R.I.D.A.Y., safety protocols will be engaged.

There will be failsafes on both sides of the glass. Capsicle will be in charge of the one on the panel-side. Dr Van Dyne will be in charge on our side. Now, without further ado, I cede the floor to Professor Xavier. F.R.I.D.A.Y, activate cube protocol six.” Tony finished with a flourish, and indicated for Jean and Professor X to come forward.

Jean pushed the Professor forward, stopping briefly by Tony for the two to exchange some quiet words. They were turned the wrong way, so Bucky hadn’t been able to follow but it must have been something important to knock Tony’s face down from that smug to that contemplative. Jean shot back a nervous look, eyes locking with Glasses for an intense few seconds, whose grimace only deepened.

Nat pushed in next to Bucky and put a hand on his arm. When he looked down, he could see just how hard he was gripping the small railing that ran along the window. As he let go, his fingers left deep groves in the metal.

Jean turned back around and let Xavier take one of her hands. They both closed their eyes. For one full minute, Bucky held his breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing.

Bucky spared a look at Nat, who was still looking ahead, lips pursed in a troubled expression.

Then, Jean seemed to stumble back a half step before righting herself.

The cube pulsed that awful eerie light, bleeding the whole lab of colour. It pulsed again, and again, in shorter and shorter intervals until it was just one awful, blinding purple light. Bucky winced and took a step back. Somewhere on the other side of the glass, the alarms began to blare, almost drowning out the hiss of the lifts lowering the cube. Jean may have been screaming something but Bucky couldn’t make it out over the rest of the din.

With groping hands, Bucky found the door into the lab and pushed against it trying to open it. F.R.I.D.A.Y. wouldn’t have activated the protocols without Clint. She wouldn’t have.

 

**

 

His father returned home, alone, sometime later. He stumbled past Clint headed for the kitchen. Clint couldn’t quite see from where he was, but considering the banging of cupboards he was looking for something – most likely alcohol – without much success.

Barney was trying to drag LC back to bed from where he was camped out at the top of the stairs but quickly gave up and left.

Headlights from a car flashed through the window, briefly illuminating the living room with long lights across the ceiling. A minute later there was an authoritative knock on the door.

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid” Clint muttered to no effect.

“Hal. I know you are in there and I need you to open the door.”

Hal was what all his father’s old football buddies called him and it seemed like everyone in Waverly called him Hal.

“Boyle?” Harold asked as he opened the door.

“It’s going to be Sheriff Boyle on this visit Hal.” The sheriff flicked his eyes upward and saw LC sitting on the stairs. “Why don’t we go into the kitchen and talk about what happened tonight?”

“Certainly.” Harold let the man in and the two of them headed to the back.

Clint didn’t need to get up, he remembered this conversation still. LC snuck down the stairs, quietly, and quickly made his way to the kitchen door, listening through the old wood.

The conversation boiled down to:

Sheriff Boyle: You fucked up Hal.

Hal: I know but you know how it goes with wives and alcohol sometimes.

SB: This is a big one Hal. Edith’s in the hospital. It looks bad.

Hal: Boyle you know me

SB: I do

Hal: One million more chances?

SB: One million more chances.

Sheriff had taken one look at LC, saw the bruises on his arms from where his buddy Hal had grabbed him earlier today and instead said ‘Happpy Birthday, son’ and had left on his way. On million more chances indeed.

That sense of injustice that Clint had felt that night as a kid had followed up for years. It was probably forty percent of the reason he’d signed up with S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place.

“I’ll see next year, Sheriff” Clint called out after the closed door with a half-hearted wave. “Or maybe not! Sorry LC, no spoilers.”

Light shone through the windows but this time it was too bright to be headlights. Clint sat up properly to shield his eyes. He got up and off the couch, and tried to walk around it to the window but after his first step, the light grew somehow even brighter. Even with his eyes clenched closed, the light still seemed to seep through. Clint covered head with his arms and then the floor beneath him disappeared and he felt like he was falling again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint didn’t so much land as find himself suddenly standing on the floor. He blinked once, twice, trying to get the large black spots that swamped his vision to disappear and quell the overwhelming vertigo. The floor beneath his bare feet felt sterile and cold. An alarm made it hard to think. Clint looked up. This looked like the cube lab, which made sense, most of the time when he projected out of the cube it was to this godawful lab.

He turned around to find Stark looking in his direction. Clint, looked behind him to see a wall and nothing else. Stark was looking at him not through him, eyes wide in astonishment.

“Tony?” Clint asked and almost winced at the desperation he’d packed into that question.

Whatever Tony replied was lost as Clint was tackled from behind. He could feel Bucky’s telltale arm around his waist, hard and far more unyielding.

“Clint. God, you’re here. You’re alright. Tell me you’re alright.” Bucky muttered into his ear.

A second set of arms locked around his neck. The slender set of fingers along the nape of his neck could only belong to Nat.

Clint sucked in one large breath and let it out shakily

“You did it. Took you all damn well long enough.” He meant it to come out light but even he could hear the accusation underneath.

“Too damn long. I’m so so sorry.” Bucky muttered wetly.

“If you ever do something that stupid again.” Nat admonished.

“Hey, hey.” Clint, pushed away slightly just to see them both. He kept one hand on each of them. “You got me out in the end. That is all that matters.” He told to Bucky, rubbing a thumb along his cheek. “And you know I can’t make any promises.” He shot back at Nat. “You guys have no id-“

“Where is the Professor? Jean? Where is the Professor?” A man with strange headgear ran into the room yelling.

“He was blocking me. I tried and he wouldn’t let me,” Jean muttered to herself, face full of shocked despair.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. Report.” Tony ordered.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr as sheeplikeme


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